


The World Is A Crazy Place

by QueenOfNewOrleans22



Series: The Cloverfield [1]
Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Suicide, Unhealthy Relationships, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 73,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25479919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfNewOrleans22/pseuds/QueenOfNewOrleans22
Summary: Richie Sambora is in a very tough spot.After losing his job and having his girlfriend leave him all in one day, Richie relocates to a different apartment building on the other side of town, hoping a change of scenery would do him good. There, he meets new friends, encounters new situations, and perhaps finds a new love.But not everything is what it seems.
Relationships: Cher/Richie Sambora, Jon Bon Jovi/Richie Sambora, Tommy Lee/Nikki Sixx
Series: The Cloverfield [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948087
Comments: 257
Kudos: 32





	1. Breakups and Meetings

Richie isn't sure why he chose this apartment, of all places. It isn't particularly nice, nor does anything about the dark, but nicely decorated building stick out like a sore thumb, hoping to be noticed by the hundreds of people looking for a cheap, but clean apartment to spend a few years while they got their lives put back together. The interior was clean, and the people who lived there were supposed to be the kind that lives in the halfway world between famous and barely known beyond a close circle of friends, expensive but within a reasonable limit, but there was something about the tall, almost foreboding building that suggested that it wasn't at all what it seemed. Or maybe Richie was just hyped up on nerves and adrenaline, and his mind was making things up to trick himself. It wouldn't be the first time, and judging by his usual luck, then it wouldn't be the last. 

He was on the third floor. The apartment was already furnished, with his bed frame and mattress already having been moved, and the only things that would need to be moved from the car and to the elevator were a few boxes, bags and clothing that could wait until morning. It was already dusk, the sky a combination of dark blue and bright pink, and Richie didn't care to spend another hour or so trekking back and forth with his belongings in tow. His back hurt, and so did his legs, and with that thought, Richie stretched, wincing at the loud, distinct pop from his cramped mucles, and grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat. It held his toiletries and a few articles of clothing that would tide Richie out until morning, when he'd have to deal with everything else, that could wait a few more hours. Richie wanted nothing more than to sleep, and that's what he expected to do. Drift off into blissful oblivion, forget about everything and everyone, and awake to a new day that would hopefully be much more enjoyable than this one. 

Hitching the bag over his shoulder, Richie tried to think of the positives of the situation that he'd found himself in. There would be no more sleepless nights spent arguing over the smallest, most ridiculous things. There would be no more slammed doors, muttered insults, and hopeless tears over a relationship that had already gone down the drain. But now, there would be a bed that was too big and an apartment that was too quiet, and no more precious kisses and stolen smiles. ' _Shit, I shouldn't be thinking about this.'_ Richie thought, shaking his head, as if to physically rid his mind of the thoughts that had taken over. It was bad, thinking of her. Richie knew that from experience, and yet, here he was, standing under the night sky and thinking of long, flowing hair and bright smiles. 

Damn it all. Richie dug into his pocket for the key ring and it's jangling keys that had been shipped to him, all of which felt cold and sharp in his hand. The front door to the apartment building remained unlocked during the day, but at midnight, the maintenance man would come and lock the front door to the opening hallway. Richie was glad that he'd managed to avoid getting stuck in traffic or just being caught somewhere that he shouldn't be, because the key to the front door was in his apartment and Richie loathed call the office so late at night to be let in, or having to wait overnight in his car or a mysterious hotel to avoid doing so. He walked inside the building, which smelt strongly of febreze, and Richie instinctively wrinkled his nose at the overwhelming smell. Adjusting the bag, which was already digging into his shoulder, Richie glanced around. There were a few paintings hanging from the walls, probably in an effort to make it look posh, but there was otherwise nothing that made it look out of the ordinary. 

Richie had been in the building before, of course, to tour the apartments and, later, to move his bed in, but it was only know that he really considered the place. This was where he'd be living for an unknown amount of time, and, to be honest, the thought was a little terrifying, even though he really didn't know why. It was quiet, which should've been comforting, except it wasn't. Richie didn't like silence, it didn't sit right with him. He was a man who appreciated noise and chaos, to a certain degree. 

"Oh, hey, you're the new guy, right?" A shadow suddenly appeared on the wall and Richie, startled, whirled around to face whoever had just come out of nowhere. A few feet away, clutching a trash bag in one hand and a cell phone in the other, was a man around his age with curly blonde hair and a friendly smile. He was tall, thin, but his eyes showed kindness and humor, bright and like a dancing flame. Laughing and backing away, as if to show he wasn't a threat, the man looked slightly apologetic but still intensely curious. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you, it's just that we don't get new people around here a lot and so, you know." He shrugged, clicking something on his phone and slipping it into his jeans pocket. Richie grinned, already knowing that he was going to like this guy just from the tone of his voice, light, and with a sort of frenetic energy about him that suggested fun. "It's alright, I'm just a little jumpy today, long drive and all. The name is Richie Sambora. Please, for God's sake, don't call me Richard." 

The man looked amused, though that seemed to be a default facial expression for him. "David Bryan. Rashbaum, actually, but that seems a little too self important for me." They shook hands, and Richie noticed that David's hands were streaked with charcoal. "Are you an artist? Or just trying to imitate Santa Claus?" He joked, and David looked surprised as he examined his hands. "Huh. I didn't notice that. My friend is an artist and he made me help him with his, uh, prose or whatever you call it." David said, wiping his hand on his jeans. "But I'm a good friend, I won't complain. Unless he burns dinner. Anyways, I gotta go, good luck, man. See you later." David saluted as turned and walked out the door. 

Richie counted that as a win. Ten minutes ago, his only friends were several miles away. Now, he was sure that David would be a good guy to have around, even if he did skip while he was walking away. Richie shrugged, figuring that everybody had their quirks. 

He took the elevator up, listening to the peppy music until he reached the intended floor. Richie hurried to his apartment, unlocking the door and going inside. It was dark, it wasn't home, not yet. Richie's true home was far away, and occupied by the exact woman who he'd long left behind after that final breakup, a final word. But Richie would make it a home, no matter what. 

Teeth brushed, clothes long abandoned, Richie fell into bed and drifted off into a dreamless sleep. 


	2. Questions

That night, Richie dreamed of monsters. 

They had long, shiny claws and eyes that were black like round, fat beatles. Crawling out from underneath his bed, growling and snarling and teaching up to capture Richie's hands, feet, pulling him into the deep, dark abyss underneath his bed. Richie yelled and thrashed but the monsters had grips of steel and they didn't let up, continuing to drag him, pull him into the hell that opened up beneath, cracking the floorboards apart and revealing a fiery out of flames and heat, so intense that it scalded Richie, even from a few feet away. 

Richie woke up in a cold sweat, the blankets tangled around his legs and with his phone beeping out a symphony, alerting him of the undeniable fact that the alarm he'd set was past due. Richie groaned, running his hands over his eyes, and then turned his phone down until silence once again filled the room. It wasn't often that he had nightmares, but when he did, it was like a horror movie from Richie's worst fears, unknown creatures and what lay beyond. The sun had long risen, casting it's golden glow into the curtains, and Richie huffed out a sigh. He should've set the alarm earlier so he had more time to get ready for the morning, but there was no use dwelling on something he couldn't change, and so Richie slipped out of bed, exposing his body to the sharp, cold air, and turned on the shower. 

The water was blessedly hot, and quickly painted the mirror in a thin steam. From the apartment to his right came a blasting opera, and though at any other time Richie would've yelled at them to 'shut up' but it was oddly comforting in that moment, some noise to fill in the silence, and he listened to it idly as he stripped out of his clothing and stepped into the shower, quickly plastering his hair down to his skull and making him pop out of his early morning daze. Richie blinked, and then just stood there, enjoying the warmth that seeped into his bones, replacing the remnants from the nightmare with a twisted sort of happiness. "God, that feels good." Richie said aloud, dousing his hair with a liberal amount of shampoo, then conditioner, just enjoying the peace and warmth and escape from the world. Richie washed his hair, did the same with his body and, with great regret that probably translated to his face, shut off the water and wrapped himself in the towel that he'd hung beside the shower before he'd stepped in. 

As much as Richie wanted to spend a lifetime in that shower, keeping to thoughts that didn't revolve Cher and his lack of an actual job, but life awaited, and she wasn't pleasant when put aside. Richie dressed quickly, though he took his sweet time with his shoes, and brushed his teeth. Richie wondered vaguely what Cher was doing now, if she was enjoying herself or maybe just going through the motions, awaiting to find the next big breakthrough. He missed her, but knew that he shouldn't. 

Lord knows that Cher didn't miss him. 

Richie was eager to find something to occupy his mind, and so left the apartment soon after to get whatever was in his car. Boxes full of pictures and books, bags of clothes, anything that he'd dragged from the house while leaving. Richie practically ran down the stairs, taking two at a time like he was a kid again, and it gave him a bit of a rush, leaping down each step. It might have been ridiculous, and Richie could see the odd looks being given to him, but, for a single moment, he didn't care. It was a brief escape, and Richie gladly accepted it. 

The car was full of his belongings. In fact, Richie hadn't remembered taking so much, but there it all was, clothing scattered and boxes stacked as much as possible without obstructing his view. "Well, look at that." Richie muttered to himself. He ran a hand through his damp hair and laughed a little, finding a weird humor in it. His girlfriend was gone, his job was gone, and here he was, cursing over how much stuff he'd packed. 

But there was no stopping now. Richie, with great trepidation, started moving. Box after box, with bags dangling from his arms, records and all of his previous belongings moving around noisily. The elevator was occupied, and so Richie took the stairs, enjoying the rush, going up and down, back and forth, even after his back started to complain. He was getting a little up there in years, but Richie would be damned before he couldn't get up and down the stairs anymore. Then again, these boxes were heavy, and the tape was bulging with the effort of keeping the flaps shut. 

For a moment, just a single few seconds, Richie set down a box and inspected it's contents, looked at the picture that lay inside. His parents were smiling up at him, cheerful and happy. A younger version of himself, with a guitar, playing basketball, joking around with friends at holiday parties. Him and Cher, side-by-side, his arm around her waist, kissing and hugging and laughing warmly, unaware of their impeding breakup. 

Richie shut the box quickly thereafter. 

He loved her deeply, but they fought too much. Richie knew that it was bad for both of them to argue like they did, and that it would've happened sooner or later, but _now_ felt like such an odd time. Years of the same cycle, arguing, whispering spiteful words, and then she'd say him down and said it wasn't working, and Richie knew that Cher was right for once, but that didn't make it hurt any less. 

It took him three ups and downs for Richie to return to his car and see the man from before standing there, leaning casually across the exterior with a lazy smirk. "You shouldn't leave unlocked cars unattended." David said, and Richie scowled, though, truth be told, he was glad to see the blonde. "How'd you know it was unlocked? Are you trying to steal my baby?" He joked, opening the back seat and teaching in to grab one of the last boxes. It was very heavy, but he loathed to ask for help. David chuckled, "Very funny. But no, I was just walking nearby and I didn't hear the, y'know..." David made a motion with his fingers like he was pressing something and clicked his tongue, mimicking the lock. 

Richie peered over the top of the car. "I'm starting to think that you're stalking me." He said, resisting the grin that rugged at his mouth. It was nice to be free and happy around somebody else, not having to worry about being told that his jokes were dumb, or that he had to learn when to shut up. Cher was his polar opposite, and it showed from the first day. "Nah. I insulted my roommate's and he kicked me out for the day." David shrugged to offset his words. "No big deal. He always gets all high and mighty with his cooking whenever it's for a special occasion." 

"What qualifies as a special occasion, besides a holiday?" Richie asked. He heaved the box into his arms and started walking after he shut the door, very aware of David following him. "My birthday and all. I wanted a party, and he delivered, though in a very passive aggressive way. Hey, it's tonight, you should come!" David jogged over to where Richie was, talking louder as his excitement became more obvious. "It will be fun. And help take your mind off of whatever is bothering you." 

Richie almost asked how David knew there was something bothering him, but realized it was obvious, judging by his attitude. Maybe his voice hadn't been the most pleasant, so what? "I do need to unpack boxes. And find a job." The last part was an afterthought. It was crazy how such an important thing could take a backseat when faced with breakups and moving into a new apartment. David frowned, "Oh, c'mon! It's my birthday. I have like five people coming and it's always so boring because there's so little people. Please? I'll have my roommate make your favorite meal." 

It was probably an empty promise, but Richie knew that he was fighting on the losing side of a battle. What would it hurt? It wasn't like he had much fun in his life, nowadays. "Fine. Lasagna, with a whole bunch of parmesan. I'll wrap up one of my old records or something for a present." 

David chuckled, "Thanks, man. It's been a while since I got a scratched up copy of ' _across the universe'."_


	3. Party Mistakes

' _Why did I agree to this?'_ Richie thought, sitting on his bed, his hands on his knees, trying to avoid looking at the horde of clothing that sat in a pale behind him. What sane person agreed to go to a party when they had loads of unpacking to do? He still needed to find a job! His life was a chaotic mess, and he was going to a _birthday party_ for a guy he barely knew. If life had been a little more normal, then Richie wouldn't be feeling this way. He'd be happily figuring out what to wear and if he had enough time to drive to the nearest shop and buy a present. But Richie had just moved, and now he had unpacked boxes sitting all over this apartment. Oh well, it's not like it would hurt anybody to go over there, mingle, chat, and maybe forget all about his troubles for a few hours. David obviously wanted him to go, and Richie had already promised to come. There was no real reason to back out now, and so, with that though, Richie stood, turned, and started looking through his clothing, figuring that he might as well start figuring out what he was going to wear. Casual or preppy? T-shirt or button-up? Jeans or dress pants? Would it even matter? Richie sighed to himself. 

Maybe he should've asked more questions about this party. David didn't seem like the sort of person who cared about that sort of things that people wore, but Richie didn't want to be overdressed, nor did he want to look like a bohemian hippie while everybody else looked all prim and proper. Eventually, he settled on a long sleeves button up and jeans, an even combination on both sides. Richie tossed them aside, and took a quick shower, this time much shorter than the previous one, and got dressed, taking some time to style his hair. He wanted to look presentable, and this was his chance to make a nice impression on the other tenants of the apartment building. Whether or not the impression would matter was a whole different story, and not one that Richie wanted to delve into at the moment. 

Richie smiled at himself in the mirror as he remembered how he looked back when he was a kid, and compared it to now. It was fun to remember those days, young and with hair that was longer than half of his girlfriends' and nobody batted an eye because it was the 80s, and that's just how it was. He was proud of how he'd aged, and happy to know that it was because he'd managed to avoid the worst of what had happened back then. Drugs and alcohol and smoking had been especially rampant back then, and Richie still kept in touch with enough of his friends from that time to know that he was lucky now to have not delved too deep into that shit. 

David had told him the time of the party before they'd departed, with the blonde giving the excuse of going to go get the apartment ready for the party, and so Richie decided to just start unpacking. He probably wasn't going to have enough time soon enough, and now was a better time than never. 

Starting on one of the boxes labeled 'BOOKS', Richie began to pull out novels upon novels, little books from his childhood that he didn't have the heart to get rid of and fantasy, horror, even drama books that he'd gathered over time. Many of them had dog-eared covers, ruined by time, while others were so be what they hadn't even gotten the chance to gather dust. Richie sorted them on the bookshelf, too to bottom, and then starts on the kitchen. Coffee pot, toaster, plates and bowls and silverware. Pots and pans. Eventually, he glanced at the clock and realized that it was almost 6:00, which was around the time David had said to come. 

Richie wondered how many people there would be. David had said that barely anybody came, so as he slipped on his shoes and grabbed his wallet, just in case, he debated between if David was just undermining how many people there would usually be or if there would be three people altogether gathered in the apartment. Richie shut the door behind him, locked it, and began to climb the stairs, reciting the apartment number that he'd been given. Fifth floor. Up, turn, up. It continued on for a few more minutes until Richie reached the floor and the door inscribed with '672' in black on gold lettering. Richie wondered if it was going to be awkward for many reasons, ranging from his lack of a gift to just...himself. 

' _This isn't about you. This is about David and his birthday.'_ Richie mentally reprimanded himself. On second thought, he pulled out a gift card from his wallet, made sure it wasn't expired, and held it in his hand as he knocked on the door. Barely a minute went by before the sound of locks sliding out of place hit Richie's ears and, a minute later, David appeared, looking absolutely gleeful. "I knew you'd make it. And look, you got all dressed up." David said, grinning and grabbing Richie's arm to pull him inside. "Tico said you wouldn't show up-that's my roommate-but I knew you would, he just needs to have a little more faith in people. How was the walk up here?" He asked. 

Richie smiled. "It was good. Nice to see the upper levels of the place, though it was very drafty." He handed David the card, figuring that he might as well get it over with. "I think the Beatles album would've been better." David chuckled as he inspected the card. "Just kidding, I love frozen yogurt. You can never go wrong with it." The apartment was packed with people, which wasn't surprising, per say. Mingling, talking amongst themselves. Richie was dragged toward the table by a very tight grip that belonged to a very excited David, who set the card down on the table and wagged his finger at the man with dark hair who was sitting nearby. "Don't put your feet up on the table, Jonny. It pains me whenever you do that, okay?" 

"Sure." The man, 'Jonny', said, putting his feet down on the floor but not looking up from the magazine he was reading, which effectively obscured much of his face.

They continued on. David, with his seemingly endless amount of energy, introduced him to everybody, dragging him around the apartment and chatting up the people like they haven't talked since high school. David's roommate was a short, dark-haired man named Tico who looked like he might actually attempt to strangle Dave when the blonde grabbed him and showed him off to Richie like a prized possession. "This is Tico, he's an _artiste_ and, ah, wannabe chef." Dave gestured vaguely to the good that had been set up on the table. Tico glares. "Fuck off." He replied, but there was no real heat in his voice as he stretched out his arm and shook Richie's outstretched hand. "Nice to meet you." 

Richie smiled and shook back firmly. "You too. So, what do you paint?" He asked, hoping that the answer wouldn't go on about all sorts of artistic things that he wouldn't understand. Richie was pleasantly surprised when Tico smirked and replied that he "had no idea" what he painted. "But it gets me money, so I can't complain about the fact that literally have no idea what I'm doing." Tico added. "What do you do?" 

What an interesting question. Richie had really, truly been hoping that the job thing wouldn't come up. "Paralegal." He answered after a moment of trying to figure out how much he should actually say. Dave tilted his head, "Paralegal?" He repeated. "I didn't paint you much for that sort of thing." 

Shrugging, Richie leaned against the wall. "Well, my original plans didn't work out well, and I figured, why not? My uncle got me into it." Basketball hadn't been something that he could do long term, not without boring himself to death in the process because that had just been something he'd picked up to occupy himself and see what it was like to be a jock. Playing guitar was great, but too many potential failures lay in that path of life, and it'd scared him. How long had it been since he picked up the guitar? He didn't even have a guitar anymore.

"You know, I almost became a lawyer. Not quite a paralegal but, close enough, right?" Tico smiled. He held up his hands, dotted with all the colors of the rainbow. "And then I realized that painting seemed much more fun. Hey, Alec, you lost, man?" Temporarily distracted, Tico caught the attention of another stranger, this time with a lighter shade of brown in his eyes. At least there was some variation. Alec huffed and looked disgruntled. "Yeah, you know me, getting lost in apartments I've been in millions of times- this your new friend?" 

They introduced themselves and the night went on. Richie, admittedly, had much more fun than he'd expected to, talking along with all the other people at the party. David seemed to be having the time of his life, and eventually, Alec loosened up, too. Tico was friendly but spent most of his time in the kitchen or, at one point, sketching something out on a napkin. "What are you doing?" Richie asked, coming to stand behind Tico's chair. "Sketching. I like to paint scenes that I've seen in real life." Tico explained, not looking up from where he was detailing freckles on a person's face in a way that seemed far too detailed, and done with too much patience, for anybody but an artist to have done.n

Richie met a dark-haired, rather odd man in makeup named Nikki, and his friend, Tommy. Heather and Micheal. Nick and Rick (ha). Mingling with people he didn't know, forgetting about his troubles for a few hours. It was nice, and Richie would admit that he drank more than he should've, which was something that he never did, a slip of his mind, and when the crowd started to trickle out, exchanging hugs with David, yelling out the last of the 'Happy Birthday's' and disappearing out the door. Alec was one of those people, cheerfully and quite enthusiastically hugging whoever remained in the apartment before disappearing. Tico was throwing away plastic plates, wrapping whatever good remained in plastic wrap while keeping an eye on the clock. "Wow, I'm beat." Tico eventually said, cracking his back. "I think that we should-" He gave David a pointed look, "-go hit the hay." 

David looked unamused. "Subtle, are you?" 

The numbers on the clock were blending together. Richie cursed under his breathe, wondering how he could've let go so easily. Drinking wasn't something he indulged in often but, evidently, it'd been so long that the dreaded affects had left his memory. "I drank too much." He admitted, his words slurred. "Evidently." Tico replied in a disapproving tone. "So it looks like you and Dave will get along great." 

"Fuck off." David muttered. 

Richie experimented with standing, but it failed, sending him falling back to the couch as the world spun around him. Squeezing his eyes shut, Richie regretted everything leading up to this moment, as dramatic as it was. Tico clicked his tongue like a mother hen and Richie sensed him moving closer. "Do you want somebody to help you back to your apartment?" He offered. 

Swallowing heavily, Richie shook his head and stood. "No. I'll be fine." He replied, making his way toward the door. But, as it was, Tico didn't think he'd be fine, and maybe that was the right choice. "No, stop right there. Jon will get you back, I don't trust something not to happen. He's around here somewhere...JON!" 

Like a dramatic rag doll, David flopped onto the couch with his arm over his eyes and seemed to fall asleep. From somewhere within the apartment, a door slammed, and a series of quick footsteps sounded just as Jon rounded the corner, tugging on his jacket and looking irritably between everybody. "Yes?" He said stiffly. Richie tuned out the conversation, which was mainly just Tico begging for Jon to take him back to his own apartment and make sure he gets in safely. There was some mild argument and pushback but, in the end, Jon rather begrudgingly agreed. "You owe me one." He muttered, and Tico sighed. "Thanks, man. I owe you twice. Good luck." 

==

Richie hated having to rely on people but he didn't really have a choice in this matter. Well, he did, technically, but that all went down the drain hours ago, and now he was stumbling down the stairs with the awkward help of a man he didn't even know. Jon was only a little bit smaller than he was, but seemed to be struggling immensely under the added weight, which meant that Richie was even more intoxicated than previously thought. They went down the stairs, slowly but surely, holding onto the railing and the wall. Richie found himself relying heavily on Jon, who despite the rather irritated look on his face, was doing a great job of being a guide. 

"I'm sorry." Richie said as clearly as possible, feeling guilty for, indirectly as it might be, dragging Jon into this mess. If not for his overwhelming need to get away from all these feelings, then both of them probably would've long been in bed. "Hmm." Jon hummed. They reached Richie's apartment in probably twice the time it usually took. 

Jon awkwardly adjusted the hold he had on Richie. "Where are your keys?" He asked. For a long minute, Richie wondered about the answer to that question, thinking long and hard about it, going back to earlier, when he'd left the apartment. Patting his pockets, and beginning to panic, Richie began to realize that he didn't have the keys on him. Jon must've read the answer on his face because he suddenly became even quieter than before.

The next thirty minutes passed with them trying to find the keys on the stairwell, the floor, trying to get Tico or Dave to unlock the door so they could see if Richie accidentally, somehow, lost his keys there, but no answer was forthcoming, and so, dejected, and with Richie suddenly feeling very sober, they started walking aimlessly. Or, rather, Richie was. Jon seemed to have some idea as to where he was going. 

"Where are we headed?" Richie asked. He still felt the faint buzz from the alcohol but it was mostly dimmed from the recent revelation that he'd lost his goddamn key. Jon was digging into his pockets now, and had significantly slowed how fast his pace had been. "No keys. The maintenance guy has extras of the keys but will never let you hear the end of it if we wake him up, plus, I don't think he's here. So, my plan is that we go into my apartment. I make you a nice bed on the couch, I go to my room, and we go to sleep. You wake up in the morning, get a new key or find the old one, and bada bing, bada boom, we're home free." Jon looked back at Richie. He had very intense blue eyes, and they seemed to burn holes in Richie's body. 

It was late. Richie was drunk and exhausted and falling asleep seemed like the best answer to this question. Jon was a stranger, but he was slight in frame and looked equally as tired, despite a sharpness to pretty blue eyes, and Richie, whether or not it was a smart idea, agreed. For some reason, he didn't feel threatened by this man, and the idea of being robbed or killed or whatever seemed really stupid, all things considered. 

Maybe it was the wrong decision, but it felt right. 

Richie followed Jon into the darkened apartment, similar in size and design to Richie's own, but decorated in brighter colors. As they entered, a large cat ran by their feet, causing Richie to nearly trip himself as consequence. Jon gave a sharp mutter of, "Go away." And the cat hissed, leaping into the back of a chair and baring its claws.

Jon scratched the cat on the back before moving on, earning himself an appreciative purr.

Having digged out a few blankets and a pillow, Jon did as promised and made up a messy bed on the comfortable couch. Richie was grateful, but still kept an eye on the other man as he moved around, gathering what Richie assumed were private things up off the table and into his arms. "I'll be in the bedroom if you need me. Bathroom is there and...don't make me regret this." Jon said with a strange desperation, bending down and picking up the tuxedo cat from the ground. Richie was too tired to articulate a real response, but did say good night right before Jon retired for the night, disappearing into the bedroom with his car in one arm and a pile of papers in the other.on

Richie didn't fall asleep for some time because, despite his exhaustion , he was wondering why and how Jon seemed, sounded, looked, _felt_ so familiar. 


	4. After Party

Richie dreamed of whispering, hands on his chest, rough kisses on the side of his face. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A tattoo on his right arm. Tight shirt, undone by steady hands. Teeth nipped at his bottom lip. Richie moaned. He tried say something, no, ask, but a hush, sharp and sudden, interrupted him just as he opened his mouth to speak. A pressure of his chest, pleasant. Firm but not heavy, reassuring but not overwhelming. More eager kisses, and Richie entangled his hand in soft hair, 

"What's your name?" He demanded to know, wanting to hear it, to make this more personal. Less like a one-night stand. Was it a one-night stand? Richie couldn't remember, but, either way. Put a name to this face, one that would surely stay in his memories forever. Except he couldn't see the face because it was blurred, like they did in television to protect the nameless, the innocent. It felt vaguely fitting, in a strange sort of way.

The man didn't answer him. 

And then Richie woke up, hand to his chest, a throb behind his eyes, a horrible taste on his tongue. It was dark, grey, not quite black. The kitchen light was on, and a figure was inside, stirring something that remained unseen. Dark hair, blue eyes, a long-sleeved shirt. Richie blinked, slowly remembering the night before, a haze of alcohol and fun, forgetting about _her_ and this whole mess with finding a job, and then stumbling up and down staircases, looking into every nook and cranny, a deep, irritated voice in his ear, muttering their annoyances that couldn't be deciphered. 

A cat was at his feet, curled up on the arm, watching him with careful green eyes. It was on its stomach, curled up comfortably. Richie could see a collar, and leaned foward, trusting the cat not to scratch him as he inspected the leather and metal tag, turning it over and squinting in the weak light, thankful that there were none, because that would just make it all worse, the headache increasing, nausea rushing up to meet him, Richie could see a faint lettering, and finally made out the name 'Frank'. Funny name, for a cat. 

A pan clattered loudly. Richie winced, feeling the promised, vengeful heat making itself known behind his eyes. He remembered that somebody had helped him home, but couldn't put a vague face, dark hair and blue eyes, to a name. If it had been told to him, then Richie couldn't remember. All he knew was that he'd lost his keys, and that he was currently in the man's apartment, which now has a strong smell of eggs, and it made Richie's stomach churn. 

"You're Richie, I'm Jon." 

"What?" Richie said, startled, blinking away from his thoughts. It felt very hot, and he kicked away the quilt that was laying atop of him, a scratchy bunch of rough, coarse fabric. "What'd you say?" His own voice sounded grating. Richie cringed as he heard a can opener begin to grate against metal. Sharp blue eyes looked up and met his, a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Jon, remember? This is my home." He said it like Richie was dumb for not remembering it. It seemed to be the man's, no, _Jon's,_ default tone. Richie frowned and slowly put his feet on the ground, his shoes making a soft noise against the wood as they were set down. 

Richie swallowed thickly as he smelt cat food. He watched as Jon dumped the can into Frank's bowl and set it on the floor. "Here, kitty, kitty." Jon called, and the cat launched himself off the couch and took off running. Richie watched as the blur disappear into the kitchen like a speeding bullet. "Nice to meet you." He said, unsure of what else to say. For a minute, Richie wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but knew, even in a distant way of how he usually thought, that he couldn't. Jon made a noise halfway between a laugh and a scoff, like he couldn't believe it. 

Jon was doling out the eggs on two plates. Richie was reminded of trying out the food at the party, eating something that might've been a deviled egg, and then looking at the array of foods that he didn't have a chance of recognizing. They'd looked foreign, but after Tico had been kind enough to explain what they were, Richie had tried something called a ' _Jibarto.'_ It had tasted like steak because, as Tico mentioned to him, it _was_ steak. Deviled eggs and something called a _Jibarto._ That had definitely been an interesting party.

Richie didn't know why he was thinking about that. 

Standing up, Richie tried to figure out his next step. He could probably make a run for it, but that was rude and just really something that seemed unappealing. He could continue to just stand there, wait for Jon to break the silence, but that wasn't a guarantee, not when he seemed so presently preoccupied with ignoring the man in his living room. Which brought a whole new set of questions to Richie's aching mind- Why did Jon so willingly invite him in and set Richie up a bed on his couch? Why did he seem so familiar? 

Jon looked disgruntled now, and vaguely gestured to the eggs he'd put on respective plates. "I made you food." Jon said, pointedly glaring down at the eggs. It wasn't a lot of food, but it was clear it was meant for two people. Richie stared at him for a long minute, and then sighed. "Why did you invite me in your apartment so casually?" 

Silence reigned. Jon's mouth was moving, as if he were juggling words around, debating which ones were right. Strands of dark brown hair swept his forehead, and slender fingers brushed them away irritably and quickly. "Because David trusts you." Jon eventually answered. He motioned to the eggs again, gesturing in the air impatiently. Richie thought about the answer for a moment, feeling a tinge of unease. But it wasn't because of the obvious, but, rather, an unknown emotion stirring up within Richie, one that reminded him of the creatures from his dream. Dark and dangerous and mysterious. "Okay." Richie cleared his throat. "I think I'll just head home, you know. Take a shower, regret the last seven or so hours." Richie grinned, trying to make light, but Jon's face remained as blank as a slate. "Okay." He replied. 

And that was enough. Richie thanked Jon for his hospitality, and was reminded in return of his lack of keys. "Nikki will probably be there. He can help you." Jon said. He was messing around with his phone and was not looking at Richie as he folded the blanket neatly, not completely sure why, exactly. Probably just a leftover of his childhood. Richie's mother had been very insistent on being nice to people who'd been nice back. Even though nice wasn't the best word for Jon, not personality wise. 

"Thank you, again. Bye." Richie said, slipping out the door quickly because the cat was eyeing it and the last thing he needed was for Frank to make a hasty exit. He wasn't completely sure that there was a response back. 

====

Nikki was hungover, though, to be fair, Richie kinda was, too. Tommy was nowhere to be seen, and Nikki kept tripping over imaginary things on the ground. "Damn mornings after." Nikki grumbled as he rummaged through a cabinet, knocking aside all sorts of delicate looking figurines and knick-knacks as he did so. Nikki must've seen how concerned Richie looked, because he vaguely smiled and pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. "Tom won't care for a crack or two, it's when they break that he goes all crazy on me." Nikki pulled out a key and handed it off to Richie, who thanked him. "Keep an eye out for the lost one, I don't fancy seeing you on the news, slaughtered, because some crazy guy found it." 

Chuckling darkly, Nikki slumped away. "Now leave me to my misery, and heed my advice- stay out of the light." 

Needless to say, Richie made yet another quick exit, speed walking up the stairs (Why was the elevator always taken? How many people lived in this place?) and entering the apartment. The kitchen light, much to Richie's displeasure, had been left on, though nothing else had been forgotten when he'd left. The first order of business was a cold shower because Richie had always felt like they helped with hangovers, and then coffee. 

Sitting down at the table, Richie pulled out his laptop and, for lack of a better term, typed 'Paralegal needed' and hoped that would be enough. He waited patiently as the page loaded. The coffee was hot and bitter, and it burned Richie's tongue the first time he sipped at it, which only added to the stress of the day. 

Two hours of searching, and another cup of coffee, and Richie closed his laptop, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. Oh, he could imagine life for Cher right now. If his luck continued to be on the opposite side of the tracks, then she was probably enjoying life, free from the inhibitions of a relationship. A part of Richie wanted badly to stalk her social media, but that was both ridiculous and creepy and there were many more things that needed to be done rather than sulk about her. 

God, he felt like a teenager again. 

He needed to go the store, and get more things than the dried goods that Richie had taken with him, for some reason, but the thought of going outside didn't provide much comfort, and so he instead lay on the couch and put on the television, turning the volume on low, but still making sure he could hear it. 

===

Richie stumbled into the kitchen sometime later to peruse the contents of the cupboards, which were admittedly lacking. 

A box of hostess cupcakes. Oatmeal. Dried apples. Cereal. Cher had usually been the one to do the shopping because Richie had poor impulse control and usually just bought everything that sounded good within reason, but now, away from her, permanently, all those responsibilities were on him. Richie couldn't complain, because a life without her complaining and blowing up at the smallest things, storming out of the room after a yelling tirade and slamming the door behind her was worth doing every single thing she usually did. 

Deciding on oatmeal, Richie started heating up the water and sat back down, thinking, for one last and final time, ' _I'm better off without her.'_

===

Richie ate. He drank another cup of coffee, and then quickly left the kitchen before there was another one added to the equation. The first two were unhealthy enough on their own, and Richie didn't exactly think that spending his day in a hyperactive rush was the best thing to do, so, instead, while he had enough energy to run a marathon, the rest of the boxes were unpacked. There were a few pictures of his mother and father that found their new homes on bedside tables and spaces that remained on bookshelves. Richie spent a minute looking at the picture, feeling a familiar aching feeling in his chest when his eyes skimmed over his father, handsome and healthy and young, before he forced this feelings deep, deep down where they couldn't be found and resumed unpacking. 

He missed his father dearly, and hoped that his mother was doing as well as she could be, considering everything. Richie wondered how far away they were, and after a brief google search, realized that he was even farther away then when he was sharing a house with Cher. The thought brought guilt, because Richie was an only child and should be there more for her. It'd been two years since it has happened, but the pain felt like it'd been there since yesterday. 

Taking a long, deep breathe, Richie wiped at his eyes and the hot tears that had gathered there. Somebody was knocking on the door, and Richie didn't really like the idea of crying in front of a stranger because that's what everybody was right now. 

Strangers. 

Richie stood, wiping his hands on his pants as he walked out of the room he was in and made his way toward the door. Richie wasn't exactly sure who he expected, but seeing Alec standing there was definitely unexpected. In fact, it took a minute for it to sink in who it was. The enemy of meeting Alec in the first place was a hazy one that felt far away, like Richie was crawling through cement in an attempt to remember it. He opened the door, and Alec smiled, looking deeply amused. "Rough night, Rich?" He said, chest shaking as he chuckled. 

Scowling, Richie leaned against the threshold of the door. "How can you tell?" He asked, wondering how bad he looked. 

Alec shook his head. "You look fine, all things considered. No, I went to go ask Dave about something and he asked if I could come over and give these to you... " Alec dug into his pocket and held up a very familiar key. "You had to go and visit Sixx? I hate that man." Catching himself before he went on, Alec shook his head and handed Richie the keys. 

The scowl disappeared as Richie placed the keys on the table that was right beside the door. "Why? He seemed fine." 

Maybe his eyeliner was smeared around his eyes like an attempt to look like a rocker who'd taken refuge from the 80s, but Richie didn't like to immediately judge people by their looks. Alec sighed and stuffed his hands on his pockets. "It's stupid. I insulted his friend once and we've had bad blood ever since. We're both prideful people. David has been threatening to trick is into being in the same room together so we could work out our differences for the past few years, but even he isn't crazy enough to try that. " 

Huh. Richie nodded, "So, do I give the key back to Nikki, or...?" He wasn't so sure, but hoped that Alec would. He seemed to have been here much longer than Richie had, but the other man just shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You could do whatever you want, man. Nikki has to pay for the keys that are lost, so more power to you. We'll talk later, 'kay? I'm gonna go meet a friend." They shook hands again, and then Alec walked away, humming under his breathe. 

Richie looked down at the key, and wondered if he'd just made another friend. 


	5. Stop, And Think

Richie wasn't aware that he'd fallen asleep until he slowly opened his eyes and saw that the sky, once bright, was now a black abyss. 

His phone was laying on his stomach, and as Richie propped himself up on his elbows, the phone slid off and fell onto the carpet. Blinking, he leaned over and retrieved it, head still hazy from sleep and wincing as the bright light from the phone cut into his eyes. It was midnight, and for some reason, that was oddly fitting. Richie sighed, bit back a yawn, and stood, cracking his back and wondering what he was supposed to do now. He could always just go into his bedroom and finish off his overtly long nap, but now that his eyes were open, Richie found that he wasn't tired anymore. 

Wandering into the dining room, which was open to the kitchen, Richie saw that his laptop was still there from his previous search for a job, despite there being a surprising lack of want or need for a Paralegal around these parts. Richie really didn't want to have to take a job that didn't actually involve his main job, but there was little choice in the matter. Either he paid bills and put food in the pantry, or call his mom and ask if he could stay with her for a while. The thought was embarrassing and, quite frankly, he didn't know if she would even say 'yes' because of all those prior times when he had to move back. Then again, she had to be lonely, in that house, all by herself. 

Richie tried to remember if he'd called her lately. 

He hadn't. 

It was too late now, but Richie vowed to call his mother as early as he could the next day. With that thought in mind, he opened his phone again and pulled up the saved contacts. His mother was the first in line, which meant that she'd been his latest call. Richie tried to remember how long it'd been since they'd talked, and realized that it'd been at least three days. ' _Oh, that's pathetic.'_ Richie thought, looking down at all his other contacts. His father was still there, because his mom refused to shut the phone off. Heather, a close friend from college and an occasional confidant during all those rough times, was also there, though months had gone by since the last call, and a few weeks since the texts. A few other friends, a cousin. Richie wondered why he even had some of these people on here. And then, finally, Cher. 

Her contact number was listed as 'Sweetheart' and the picture was of her when they'd traveled to the mountains. Cher had been telling him not to, but Richie had pulled out the camera nonetheless and snapped a few pictures of her, telling her to pose like a faux photographer. The picture saved in the contacts had her smiling at the camera and Richie had been fooled into thinking that she was smiling at _him._

Richie's finger hovered over the 'delete' icon. It didn't matter whether he did it or not, because no more calls, texts, anything would be exchanged. There was nothing tying them together, no kids, no pets, and this... _this,_ was a new beginning, even if all the friends he'd managed to make so far were definitely an odd bunch. Richie took a deep breathe and pressed the delete button, clicked that, yes, he was sure that he wanted to delete the contact, and Cher's picture and name and number disappeared. 

Just like that. 

Like it'd never been there at all. 

Looking down at the picture, Richie felt tears begin to burn behind his eyes. ' _I need some fresh air.'_ He thought, and the idea wasn't a bad idea. Making sure to grab his keys and put them into the innermost pocket of his jacket, Richie decided to leave his wallet in the apartment and left. This time, the elevator was freed up, and not wanting to walk down the stairs yet again, Richie practically ran to ensure his spot. He ducked into the elevator and, upon seeing nobody coming, pressed the down button. 

The doors closed, bathing him in bright light and cheery music. 

=======

What had started out as just getting a breathe of fresh air turned into a walk. 

It wasn't the safest thing, nor was it the smartest, but the cold, frigid weather seemed to provide a nice thinking space for Richie. Through the dark sidewalks, watching as the other people passed him by, walking for their own reasons in their solitude. Richie thought about his father, and then his mother, and tried to remember the years that had gone by of happiness and love, a time that felt like so long ago. He thought about how dramatically his life had changed, from a house to an apartment, taken and in love to single and alone. 

Maybe he was better off alone. 

Richie didn't like that, though. He thrived being around people, and always envisioned himself being buried next to the person he loved. 

At the same time, he'd never exactly been lucky when it came to love, or the feeling closest to love. Distantly, Richie remembered the first time he felt so close to somebody that, in his youth, he thought it was love, it ended as quickly as it began. Richie wasn't even sure how or why their romance ended, only that they were young, and stupid, and mistaken. Then a string of women, brief flings that Richie wasn't proud of that ended in heartbreak, and then Cher had come along, an angel in black, and Richie had been mistaken into thinking that his feelings for her had been returned. Clearly, they hadn't. 

After about an hour of aimless walking, Richie returned to the apartment building, but squinted when he saw a huddled figure smoking near the door. He slowed his pace, trying to see who it was. 

Pulling out his phone, Richie turned on the flashlight and directed it toward the ground, trying to make himself known without saying anything. As he drew closer, Richie directed the phone about chest-height, and watched as the person turned, flinching noticeably, startled. In the weak light provided by the phone, Richie could see a familiar jacket. 

"Jon? What are you doing out here?" Richie asked. Jon raised his eyebrows and waved his cigarette irritably. "What do you think?" Jon said, his perpetual frown stuck in place. Richie squashed down his rising anger, wondering why the other man was such an asshole all the time. Maybe it was just his personality, but couldn't he just try to be nice once in a while? 

Irritated now, Richie brushed past Jon, who sunk back against the building in response. "Why do you hate me so much?" Richie huffed. It was hard to see an exact facial expression without shining the light in his face, but Jon's grown only seemed to deepen, if possible. Shrugging, as if the answer didn't matter, or if he didn't know why himself, Jon looked away. 

For a few minutes, neither of them said anything. Despite his coldness and rudeness, it felt nice to be around Jon, and Richie didn't even know why. It was like, as much as it was difficult, Richie's subconscious wanted to be close to Jon, even if it ended badly. "Why were you walking?" Jon asked, sounding as if the words were being forced from his mouth. Richie looked at him, but could tell that the motion wasn't returned. "Just thinking about how much life sucks. Your job and girlfriend don't mean much, and can be taken away in just an instant. The people you love can die so suddenly that you can't even comprehend it. No matter how nice or selfless or whatever you are, you just get screwed in the end." Richie sighed and rubbed his eyes, probably looking pathetic but not caring because, after all, what the hell did it matter? 

With a sigh, Richie shut off his phone and put it back in his pocket. "It feels like the world is falling apart around me. You know how in video games, you run and run while the ground is falling away into space? Run, run, run, and sometimes you're fast enough, and you get to safety, but other times, you're too slow, and you fall away into space, gone, forever." Richie looked up at the sky. He couldn't see any stars, just the moon, full and pale. "The woman I love is gone. I don't have a house, a job, nothing. And what am I doing? Standing here, talking to some guy who hates me and doesn't even bother to hide it, who's a complete jerk and treats me like shit but, you know what? It doesn't even bother me anymore." Richie felt like a little of the weight on his shoulders had disappeared, if only somewhat. The ball of anxiety in his stomach has lessened, and he could breathe a little easier. 

A minute went by.

Jon dropped his cigarette and snuffed it out beneath his shoe. "That sucks." He finally said decisively. Richie scoffed, "Thanks for that, man. I'm glad I have your support." He said dryly. Richie usually didn't act like this, but in his defense, life was crazy right now and he was pretty sure he had a right to be angry. Jon looked at him, head tilted. "A professional friend once told me that the struggles you face today, only make you stronger for tomorrow." He said softly. 

And then he walked back inside, leaving Richie alone once again. 


	6. Cassette

_Professional friend_

_Struggles_

_Stronger tomorrow_

Richie's dreams were really starting to get on his nerves. He'd never had a dream like this one, and that was probably the only reason he remembered it when he woke up from having dozed off at the table while drinking his coffee, in a moment of irony. The dream had been similar to the one he'd had when he was at Jon's apartment, except they were in near a lake, throwing rocks into the water. As per usual, the face of the blonde man was blurred, but everything else could be seen. Blonde hair, a tattoo. This time, Richie could properly see the tattoo, and saw that it was the superman emblem. Richie was starting to wonder if these dreams were something else, but had no idea how to tell the difference, or was 'something else' could even entail. The man was talking about something, about a tape recorder, boxes, and then his voice, low yet somehow boyish at the same time, rose into a yell, and the last thing Richie heard before woke up was yelling, a demand to look, look, _just look!_

He startled awake with a pounding throb beginning behind his eyes. It was starting to grate on his nerves, mainly because the man was so familiar, and Richie had the distinct feeling that he was forgetting somebody, or something. He didn't have a good memory, anyways, so it was entirely possible but no less annoying. Why couldn't life be normal? Just let him move on from the breakup and live a semi-normal life that doesn't involve strange dreams and a neighbor who seems to hate, no, loathe him with a vengeance. 

The plans were to go to the store and replenish the kitchen. Milk, some fruit, and coffee. But as Richie dug into his closet and the clothes that resided within, a half-hearted mess that Richie didn't have the patience to organize, the tape recorder ordeal didn't leave his mind. In fact, the words kept repeating itself, spinning around in his head and refusing to quit. There were a few boxes that had been left closed and stacked in a closet. Did he have a tape recorder? Richie looked up from the list he was making for the grocery store and thought about it. There might be one, hidden beneath records and all sorts of things that Richie hasn't unpacked because he didn't know where he was going to put them yet. 

Was it worth going through all those boxes for a tape recorder that might not even be there? 

Richie looked at the closet that had the boxes. Maybe it'd be a good thing to just check, see, investigate. His subconscious or whatever was coming up with these dreams obviously had it in for him, and maybe it would help him remember the mysterious blonde that was now accompanying his subconscious on this wild ride. Richie tapped his pen on the table and decided that he would do it after shopping. After all, who knows how long it would take to dig through boxes that hadn't been opened in years. In his haste to get everything out of the house, Richie had just grabbed everything that had his name on the box, and probably left more than a few things behind. Whatever. Cher had more than likely already tossed his belongings out into the trash. 

Dressing quickly, Richie left the apartment. 

David was at the mailbox, located just next to the staircase, and he was trying, in vain, to get his key out of the lock. "For such a modern building, it sure does have a lot of-" David pulled hard enough to make a vein stand out in his forehead. "-problems." He finished, glaring at the key angrily. Richie took pity and walked over, grabbing the key and tugging hard at it. "Nice seeing you up and moving by yourself." David commented from behind him, and Richie turned. "Do you want this key out of not?" 

Backing away, David put his hands up in defence. "Sorry. I was going to check up on you the next morning, but Teek refused to let me out of the apartment until I helped him clean up. He's such a _mother._ Did Alec give you the key back?" 

The key came out, and Richie stumbled backward, nearly falling. "Yes, he did. Told me about the fight he had with the one guy- Nikki. I still don't know how I lost that key." Richie shook his head and handed the key back. 

Looking sympathetic, David brushed his hair away from his face. "It was an unfortunate accident of the forgetful mind. Did you manage to get into your apartment?" His phone vibrated noisily, and David pulled it out of his pocket but didn't look at it. 

Richie shook his head. "Not until the next morning. I bunked with Jon." 

David immediately raised his eyebrows, looking taken aback by the response. "He let you in so easily? The man has trust issues, so he must've liked you." Shaking his head, almost disbelieving, David looked down at his phone and winced. "Whoops. I need to go." 

He turned and was about to walk away when Richie hurriedly grabbed his arm, preventing David from leaving. "What- sorry, what do you know about Jon?" Richie let go of David's arm but didn't back away. 

David looked confused. His phone vibrated again, but he paid no attention to it. "Not a lot. He's been living here, in this building, for like five years. He's in his thirties, I think. Has a cat named after Sinatra. I think he may work from home, that's about it." David smiled and shrugged. "Let's talk later, 'kay? I gotta go, bye!" 

Richie watched as the blonde walked away, no less confused about the whole ordeal. 

===

Arms laden with grocery bags, Richie leaned against the wall of the elevator and watched as the numbers near the ceiling changed. 

As it turned out, shopping was the trip that'd taken much longer than previously anticipated. Nearly three hours after he'd set out, Richie was only now returning, and was exhausted, not mentally, but physically. Stepping out of the elevator, Richie awkwardly juggled the bags and his key as he unlocked the door to the apartment and shuffled inside. He wasn't even sure _why_ it'd taken so long, but the store he'd gone too bad been crowded and hard to navigate, in his defense. 

Opening the fridge, Richie began to put stuff away. He thought back to his very brief conversation with David, and then that dream. For a moment, Richie fantasized about just not looking and setting the search aside for another day, but then he'd have to just do it then and procrastination never worked out well in the end, did it? 

The food put away, Richie put all the bags underneath the sink and undressed into something more comfortable. He made himself a bowl of cereal, and ate it much more slowly than he did usually, dreading having to go through all those boxes but figuring that if there was nothing, well, at least he looked. 

With that being said, there was nothing pleasant about opening boxes and having plumes of dust rise up to meet your face. Richie coughed and backed up, wiping his shirt and running his hands through his hair, watching as the dust dropped onto the floor. The first box was full of a whole bunch of nothings, and the second box yielded some odd, assorted belongings of his. The third was the lucky winner, and Richie found himself more excited than he expected when, beneath a few holdovers from his younger days, Richie found a tape recorder and a box of cassette tapes. "Well, look at that." He muttered to himself. 

Maybe he'd done more drugs in the 80s than he cared to admit, because he didn't remember having a tape recorder. 

The cassettes were old. Richie was partly worried that they wouldn't work after so much time, and after being locked in a hot, crowded box for so many years, but they were in remarkably good shape. Richie also wondered about the tape recorder, but knew that he could always just go out and get a new one. The cassettes were really the things that mattered, and as Richie read the names that had been scrawled on the cases in black marker, he began to realize how much they really mattered. 

_The King Of Swing and Captain Kidd 1# Strumming and Humming._

_The King Of Swing and Captain Kidd 2# Runaway with me._

_The King Of Swing And Captain Kidd 3# The sun and the moon._

_The King Of Swing and Captain Kidd 4# What do I title this one?_

_The King Of Swing and Captain Kidd 5# Time gone by._

Richie opened the recorder and grabbed the first cassette. Slipping it in, he examined the buttons and hoped that the first one he pressed would be the right one. And with that, he listened, and went back to the time when he was young. 

_"Is this thing on?" Richie asked. He lightly hit the recorder with his hand and sighed, annoyed. "Hey, Jon! How do you tell if the recorder is on?" He was sitting at the table in a small apartment that smelt strongly of smoke. Far from the man he was nowadays, Richie was young and in love, or, at least, quite enamoured. Long brown hair and lips that smiled so easily that it was like the world and it's troubles didn't bother him in the slightest. From somewhere else in the apartment, which was so dark, despite the light being on, that you couldn't see more than five feet in front of you, there was distinct sound of a door being slammed, and Jon appeared a moment later. "The bright red light, Rich." He said, amused. Curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes,_ _a tattoo positioned high on his arm,_ not _quite affected by life yet. "You got it, babe." Jon confirmed as he leaned over, nodding._

_Even the casual observer could see the way that they interacted with each other, and tell what was going on just below the surface. The touches, the looks. "Okay, now where's my...there it is." Richie stood and walked over to where his guitar was. "Which one are we doing again? Oh, yeah. Blaze of glory. For a pirate, you sure do like you're cowboy songs." Chuckling, Richie accepted a kiss, leaning into it like it was the one thing in life he wanted. "You know, you could always play this yourself."_

_Jon smiled. "I'd much rather have you by my side." He replied. They moved from the table to the couch, sitting beside each other. Jon cleared his throat, running his finger up and down the length of the paper he was holding. "Should I count down?" Richie asked with a laugh. Jon rolled his eyes and playfully shoved his shoulder, "Just play your magic, Sambora."_

Richie could remember it. Could remember the familiar affection, deep in his chest. The feeling of Jon's skin against his own, bright blue eyes full of love. 

He didn't want to think about that. Remember the rapid succession in which it'd all gone so wrong. 

Looking back down at the recorder, Richie thought about it. The man whom he'd once shared a bed with, and his neighbor, shared a first name, and their voices had a similar tinge to it. Their eyes were the same color, a bright, intense blue. 

But it couldn't be the same person. Richie knew it wasn't the same person, and didn't entertain the idea for a second longer before he stood, walking away and leaving the sound of a guitar playing and a voice singing to make its way throughout the apartment. 


	7. Keep Thinking So

It _couldn't_ be the same person. 

It was too much of a coincidence, of course. There were plenty of Jons in the world, and there was surely a bunch with blue eyes. Richie knew that there was no shortage of blue-eyed Jons with a similar raspy voice who looked eerily similar, now that he thought about it. They had been different hair, though. The Jon he'd known had long, curly blonde hair but the one now had short, dark hair, and, of course, the tattoo. He hadn't seen that familiar little emblem on the dark-haired Jon's arm, but, then again, Jon didn't seem to own a short-sleeved shirt and constantly wore a jacket. Richie buried his face in his hands and tried to call himself when he realized that he was breathing way too fast and his heart was like a jackhammer in his chest. It wasn't too weird to think that Jon had cut his hair, Richie had done so too. And blonde wasn't even the Jon's natural hair color, but _it was all too much._

Why did this have to happen? Richie wasn't ready to accept the truth, especially with the possibilities that came along with it. Just a normal life, that's all he wanted, not one where the guy he dated over, what, twenty years ago? just so happened to be living in the same apartment building as him. This couldn't be happening, it just didn't seem possible, and yet, here they were. It was a pretty big coincidence, but crazier things had happened. Richie could see the similarities in facial structure, the same look in his eyes-if not for the fact that the older Jon had a faint look of weariness, and perhaps something else. Richie couldn't put his finger on it, and maybe he didn't want too because, deep down, he knew that he was the one who put those looks there. 

The sky was grey now. It would rain. Fat drops of water, down onto the world. Richie didn't like rain, because it had rained at his father's funeral. 

Trying to think of something different, a time when this thing wasn't real.

Laying down on the couch, thinking about that one time he and Cher had gone skiing. 

It had been a good weekend. Full of fun and happiness. Richie wished he could go back then and enjoy those two days filled with clumsiness and falling into the cold, thick snow. 

Yes. Very fun. 

_"So, you finally figured it out, huh?" Young Jon asked with a curl to his lip and a tilt of his head, blue eyes cold and calculating. He was sitting on a high tree branch, and Richie, young once more, had to look up to see him. They were at a park filled with kids, mothers, fathers. Nobody spared them a glance, those two teenage boys who were always polite and minded their own business. "You're a natural brunette." Richie said, his mouth dry, strands of hair falling into his face because of the wind. Young Jon leaned down, and Richie bit back a warning to please, please be more careful, and the young man above, just barely dangling on by a thread, looked deeply amused. "Now you care." He said with no small amount of distaste._

_The children disappeared. Their parents did, too. Richie was still looking up at the tree, and his chest felt like it was being ripped apart from the inside. "Where were you?" Young Jon demanded, voice high and sharp. "Where the fuck were you, where did you go? Why?" And then he let go of the tree, threw himself off, and Richie raised his arms to catch the boy but they were heavy and he couldn't, just couldn't, and Young Jon fell, and fell, and fell._

_The park faded away. Bits and pieces floated away, like space was sucking it all back in. Richie remained as still as a statue, and the tree, alongside the body on the ground, disappeared. Now, they were at a diner, in a booth. Opposite of him, Older Jon sat, sipping coffee and looking surprisingly calm, though the thinly-set lips and blank eyes almost betrayed his true feelings. Richie sat there, his hands squeezing at empty hair, opening and closing his mouth like a fish._

_Older Jon looked at him with faint curiosity sparking in his eyes. He lowered the mug, which made no noise as it was set down upon the table. "Now..." He said, so softly that it was almost impossible to hear him. Leaning over, he placed his finger over Richie's lips, and took a deep breathe, as if preparing himself for the next words. There was nobody else in the diner, and it smelt of cologne and smoke, a lingering aftershock. "It's my turn to talk."_

Richie nearly fell off the couch, cursing himself. He was wide awake, like he hadn't fallen asleep in the first place, and looking at the clock told him that it had only been five minutes. The feeling of a finger against his lips was still there. "Shit. Okay, okay." Richie stood, legs shaky, and made his way back into the kitchen. His phone was on the table, and he grabbed it, the weight reassuring in his hand. Unlocking it, he opened the contacts and pressed on the first one that popped up. He put the phone to his ear and felt like crying. He didn't. 

"Richard, honey?" 

Or maybe he did. Richie put one of his hands over his eyes. It felt like home and love. "Hi, mom." He whispered. Richie's legs felt shaky and so he sat down. "How are you? I'm so sorry I haven't called." From the other side of the line, he could hear glass clattering against glass and a faint laughter. "Oh, don't be, darling. We're both at fault for that. I assumed you were still unpacking, job hunting. I miss you." His mother sounded like she was about to start crying. Richie nearly laughed as he thought ' _Welcome to the goddamn party, mom!'_

They talked for a long time. The rain came and left. Richie laughed and then cried, and his mom cooed at him from the other side. "Why don't you tell me what's wrong?" She offered, and it felt like a pass to heaven's gate. 

Richie sniffed. "Yeah, soon. I gotta do some things, first. I'm so scared, and I don't want you to...be disappointed with me. That's my worst fear. I did some things that I'm not proud of, mom." Richie wondered if his mom thought that he had killed somebody. The thought humored him. 

"I'll always love you, Richard. Your father does, too. You've always been number one in our hearts, and you're bound to stumble in your life, but you always get back up." She replied. Richie swallowed thickly and hunched his shoulders. "Maybe I could come visit you in a few weeks, after I do a few things, I dunno, try to fix my mess?" 

For a long minute, Richie feared the response. But then his mother let out a noise that might've been a relieved sigh. "Of course you may, sweetheart. My door is always open." 

_And now, you gotta hope that you still have the key to this locked heart._

_\---_

Up the stairs, down the hall. Richie felt old and tired, and each step took longer than it should've. On his way, Alec passed him by but was in a hurry. Everybody always seemed to be in such a hurry. Richie was, too. He told Alec, who listened attentively but impatiently, to pray for him. It was said as a joke but ended as a plea. Alec nodded and, for a moment, seemed to understand. 

For a long minute, Richie feared that Jon had left. Grocery shopping, to whatever he did as a job. Anything and everything. But a full minute after he first knocked passed and then a certain man appeared in the small gap that he permitted as he opened the door. "Yes?" Jon said, eyebrows raised, looking cautious. Richie could see the bags of exhaustion underneath bright eyes, dimmed by time and hurt. "Can I come in?" Richie asked him. It felt like a death sentence. Jon's grip on the door tightened. It felt like a warning. He balanced on one foot because his cat was trying to get outside and he was using his foot to push him away. "Why?" 

Good question. 

Reassurance. Hope. Richie didn't think he could properly articulate the reason because it was beyond him exactly what he planned to do after this and why he was feeling the need to do this in the first place, besides the guilt. "An impulse." Richie said without meaning to. And then he scrambled rectify his mistake. "I don't want to live like this anymore." 

_Like what? Dreaming and crying because life is a bitch?_

Jon's lip was doing the curl thing again. Richie wondered if he was even aware that it was happening. "Fine." Jon closed the door but opened it again a minute later. Frank the cat was in his arms, blinking like he understood what was going on. Jon pet the ruff of fur at the cat's neck. Richie paused to close the door and the younger man walked away, into the dining room. There was a laptop sitting open and a mug of coffee. Notebooks of paper. Pencils. A bottle of medication with the label ripped off.

Richie licked his lips. "I know who you are." He said. It felt like a good opener, like they were in a thriller movie about mistaken identities. It served to calm him somewhat. Jon, meanwhile, remained stiff and tense. "Do you?" He said. The cat meowed and squirmed, but wasn't let down. He was like a shield, and Jon was using it to his advantage.

_Yes. Please let me explain._

"Jon Bongiovi. John. However the fuck you want to spell it." Richie laughed but didn't feel amused. The last name came into his mind like a welcome intruder, because he hadn't remembered it, at first, but there it was. It helped solidify his credibility. Jon raised his eyebrows again. "Finally." He said. Richie felt anger appear, hot and vicious in his chest. "Finally? That's all you say?" No, he couldn't get angry. Not now. This wasn't the time. 

Jon stepped back. 

The cat jumped, landed safely, and found safety stop of the fridge. 

"Yes, finally." Jon said. Despite the step back, he was still balanced on neutral, no expression whatsoever showing on his face. "You haven't changed much." 

_Covering his face with the magazine, careful not to be seen. He kept turning his face away when he was helping you after the party. Always was so far away. Kept hiding in the dark when you two were outside._

_Fuck._

Richie leaned against the wall. Now that they were closer, and now that he was properly looking, Richie could see the similarities more clearly now. Why hadn't he saw it sooner? "Why didn't you tell me, then?" 

The clock was ticking. It felt too much like an omen. "Why would I tell you?" 

_Cold. So very cold. When he looks at you, there's no hope._

_He looks dead._

_This wasn't just me._

_I didn't do all of this._

_Something else happened._

_Yes, but you started this domino effect._

Richie looked around the apartment. It looked too normal for the situation that they were in. "You knew. Right from the start, and you didn't say a word about it. Jon, I've been driving myself crazy because of these dreams and I only just found the tape recorder. Remember? It was old, but they all worked. The King Of Swing. Captain Kidd." 

Jon nodded. "I remember."

 _Remember. Remember what happened?_ "For the love of- say something besides your cryptic one-liners, Jon! Give me something to work with here!" Richie yelled. Jon winced and grit his teeth. The clock was ticking, the world was falling away again. 

"You want something besides my cryptic one-liners? Fine. I didn't say a single thing about it because it hurts. Your girlfriend broke up with you and all sorts of shit had happened and you're obviously not in a good place right now and- _for fuck's sake!"_

In a split second, the coffee cup was launched at the wall. It broke into a thousand jagged pieces. "You left me, without a single word, you fucking bastard and it still _hurts_ and I didn't want to because you're lonely and I'm bitter and you forgot about me because I don't matter to a single one of you and it would happen again, don't you see? _Don't you see?"_ The laptop fell to the ground as Jon swept his arm over the table, sending papers and pencils and the bottle to the ground. The cat hissed. "I wanted to fucking die and here who you are, asking _me_ why I didn't tell _you._ I hate you because I love you and I shouldn't, and **there it is!** My heart in a few hundred words! Are you happy? Are you finally happy with me? Are you fucking satisifed? Am I finally enough?" 

And just like that, like all the fight left with his words, spoken like poison, unleashed like a knife into a beating heart. Jon collapsed to the ground in broken, heaving sobs, his palms digging into his eyes, chest rapidly rising and falling, sounding like he was choking on himself with every cry. Richie, barely comprehending, stepped foward, unsure of what he was going to say, or do, but a single word broke through the sobs, and it was clear as day. 

"Leave." 

And he did. 

On his way down the stairs, Tico appeared. His face was splattered with paint, dark eyes filled with thinly veiled concern. "What happened?" 

_I don't know._

Richie shook his head. "Jon needs your help." He said weakly, and then he continued to his apartment. 


	8. Where, Who, Why

That night, no dreams came.

It should've been a relief, but it was disappointing to wake up and not remember anything that had happened in his sleep, a trick that his subconscious had made up nor a memory from years gone by. All that he could remember was the fight, the breakdown, whatever you wanted to call it. Yelling, pain, an eruption of emotions that had come to a screeching crescendo. Tico had come, asked what was wrong or what had happened, something to that effect, and there was paint on his face and concern in his eyes and Richie wondered if something like this had happened before.

He showered and brushed his teeth, ate cereal, and looked for jobs. Richie put in applications for two firms, and then scrolled the internet for a long while, trying to occupy his restless mind. Outside, a bird was chirping with the cheer of a creature that was unbothered by the world around it, and the clock was slowly ticking towards afternoon. He'd slept in much later than what was expected, and maybe that was for the best. Richie loathed the idea of what might come next, but he didn't get all the answers he needed the day before. Something must've happened, because although he remembered the basics, and knew that he'd dated, or gotten close to dating, Jon sometime in the 80s, it was a mystery as to what had driven them apart. And key pieces of the puzzle were still missing, certain parts of life having been torn away and still drifting in endless eternity. 

The one man that held answers had told him to leave. He'd thrown a mug against the wall and watched as it shattered into a million tiny little pieces, and then sent his laptop, all sorts of his belongings, to the ground in a fit of anger and pain and unspoken hurt that reached a sudden crescendo that seemed to rock the very ground that they stood on. Richie didn't remember their past, couldn't recall for the life of him how they met, and only remembered bits and pieces of their time together. He could recall happiness, and a joint love for music. Passing a cigarette back and forth while contemplating a life beyond their bubble, two boys who hadn't yet truly felt pain. 

Absently ripping apart a piece of paper, Richie stared down at the torn remains of white. His heart was thudding so hard in his chest that it hurt, a ball of anxiety forming in his chest. Why didn't he remember? 

For some reason, he knew that Jon held the answers. They hadn't seen each other for years and, logically, Jon shouldn't have known why he couldn't remember but there was a feeling, buried deep, that suggested a knowledge that went far beyond the surface. Richie knew he had to ask, but remembered the scene yesterday, and recalled the look of utter betrayal in bright blue eyes, that suggested many old hurts. 

Had they fought before separating? Had there been a fight of such proportions that Richie had packed up and left? But Jon had said things in his rant, a furious pace of words, that brought even more questions than the much needed answers. Tico might've been able to calm him down, and Richie reassured himself with that. In all likelihood, there would be an explanation, albeit in a typically cryptic way that made him want to bash his head against the wall of only to hear it given straight.

Richie fought to remember what had been said. Jon seemed to be harboring feelings that went deeper into the waters, far away from the obvious. Richie didn't want to dig into the wounds deeper and cause even more hurt, but also urged for answers, to know what had happened so many years ago, to remember what he'd done. Was it drugs that left his memory patchy and spotty? Alcohol? Richie just wanted to know and have this stupid mystery be done and over with. 

The laptop was slammed closed. Richie buried his face in his hands and uttered a long string of profanities, wondering what he'd ever done in life to deserve this. 

_Answers. Just go get answers._

Whether or not it was wise to go back so soon was just another mystery left unsolved. Richie found his sneakers, tossed aside and still tied in a perfect knot, and slipped them on, nearly tripping because he wasn't holding onto something. 

He left the apartment. 

\---

The stairs seemed to stretch on forever. Richie climbed and climbed and then climbed some more, practically dragging his feet, feeling exhausted despite the extra sleep he'd gotten. Moving into this apartment had been a ploy for a new start at life. But now, life at become even more stressful than previously. 

Door 4790 seemed imposing, foreboding. Richie almost felt like a child again, faced with a place that he wasn't supposed to trespass into. He hated it, but couldn't do a single thing about the tricks his mind played on him with a demented sort of cheer. 

Raising his hand, Richie knocked. The sound of knuckles on wood echoed throughout the hall and just like last time, there was a stretch of time before his call was answered. As if he'd been dreading such a moment, Jon appeared. His hair was damp and tousled, an undeniably odd look set on his face. Blue eyes ran up and down Richie's body as if inspecting it, and then he disappeared further into the apartment, leaving Richie to follow. 

It seemed to be a routine. Leaving, following. Searching for answers to questions that danced just beyond reach. 

The apartment was clean now. Shards of glass lay in the trash, and so did many pieces of crumbled paper. Frank was on the floor, gazing at him with eager eyes, like he'd been awaiting this moment in a fierce change from his owner. 

Jon was near the table. He looked a simultaneous mix of exhausted and terrified and sad. His right hand was wrapped in gauze and held close to his body. There was a sharpness in his eyes, despite all signs pointing to distress, that suggested he knew what was going on. Richie took a deep breathe and looked down at the wooden tables, where he was absently tracing a nonsense pattern. "Explain, please. Give me answers." 

And Jon, so familiar that it hurt, nodded. "Okay." 


	9. Explain (I Do)

Jon made them coffee. 

It was probably to stall the conversation that they were about to have, which was understandable but irritating. For a few minutes, Richie sat, alone, at the dining room table while Jon went around the kitchen, his movements audible, as if assuring Richie that he was still there, and hadn't made a run for the door to avoid the inevitable. Eventually, Jon reappeared and set down a mug of coffee, and though Richie hated to drink unsweetened coffee, he did it anyways, not about to complain about such a thing during this time. "Where do you want me to start?" Jon asked, sitting down opposite of Richie, hands folded. Richie debated with himself with a minute, unsure.

"When did we meet? And where?" He finally decided, starting from the beginning. Jon nodded, avoiding eye contact, as if it would break his concentration. "I don't recall the exact year but it was around the holidays. You used to play guitar at the park to earn extra money, and it was the best thing I'd ever heard so I sat and listened to you, even though it was snowing. You later told me that you only kept playing because you didn't want me to leave." Jon said, slowly, as if the information was coming to him right as he spoke it. Richie did remember playing guitar in the snow, and as he thought harder about it, about ignoring the cold and ice in favor to earn a few extra dollars to pay for gas, since he'd just gotten a car, he could recall somebody coming down and sitting next to him, and remembered feeling surprised that somebody would stop and listen to him. 

"That sounds like something out of a movie." Richie said with a small smile, trying to make light of it all, and this time, Jon admitted defeat with the smallest upturn of his lips, barely noticeable. "Yeah. Every day, I would go and find you in that same park, and we'd just sit there while you played." Jon took a small sip of his coffee. Richie took it all in, memories that he could recall with only the faintest hint of remembrance. "Did we live together?" He asked, though he assumed that they had lived in the same apartment. Confirmation was key.

Jon nodded. 

The idea was oddly endearing. But to think that he'd been so close to somebody, and didn't even remember them, was disconcerting. "So we were lovers?" Richie said. He knew that they were, but he just wanted to make sure that what he thought had happened wasn't just a product of his faulty memory. "Yeah." Jon replied. "Your parents knew, my parents knew, it was a whole mess. But neither of us could've cared less." 

Richie wondered why his parents hadn't brought the situation up to him in the years after they'd separated. Maybe he'd been so distraught that they'd just decided that it wasn't worth bringing up. "So I'm guessing we were pretty close, right?" 

"Right." 

"So what happened? Was there some big fight? I must've had a reason to have left." Richie ran his hands over his face, confused and worried about the words he was going to hear next. Jon pursed his lips and then stood, disappearing into another room without a word. Richie watched him go with narrowed eyes, only for Jon to reappear just a moment later, with a lighter and a cigarette. Richie was offered one, but he has never gotten into that habit and rejected it. Jon stood a ways away as he lit his cigarette, ignoring his assumed previous care to obey the rules and not smoke within the apartments. "It started out small, but then it just..." Jon made an explosion sound and motion with his hands. "We'd fought before, but this time, we were both exhausted and at the end of our ropes with all sorts of things. We fought _bad."_

The coffee was cold now. Richie grimaced as it went down, but it gave him an excuse not to engage in the conversation yet. They'd fought, and what, he'd left because of an argument?

"We both said things. In the end, we decided to sleep it off. You said it would all be better in the morning. I apologized, you apologized. We fell asleep. Before we did..." Jon trailed off, attempting a sardonic smile that just looked odd and wrong. "I asked if you loved me. Never did get an answer." 

As the words settled in Richie's mind, final and calm, memories began to break through the fog. Sharp, cruel words. Jon, sitting on the couch, with his face buried in his hands. Pacing, back and forth, unsure and unknowing.

Richie shut his eyes, not wanting to think, not wanting to remember. 

"I left. I packed up my clothes, my belongings. Went to my parents house and ignored all your calls. You didn't say anything to cause that Jon, I left because I was..." 

_Scared about continuing this relationship. Worried that I would spend the rest of my life arguing with the man I loved. Because I didn't know what to do next. Because life is a rollercoaster and I wanted off but you stayed on._

Richie didn't finish what he was saying. The room was silent, broken only by their breathing and the soft meows coming from Richie's feet, where the cat was, pawing at his leg. Richie looked down at, his brown eyes meeting bright green. The sight of such a sweet face almost sent him over the edge of hysterics. 

Instead of that, Richie got up and walked into the kitchen, turning the water on cold and bending over so that he could wash his face. It was a ploy, just in case this was a dream, to jolt him into reality. But all it did now was make his face wet, and so he shut the water off and wiped it with a paper towel, thinking about what to say next. There were a million questions but none of them fit. "Why did I forget?" He asked, looking at the man standing a few feet away, calmly awaiting for him to talk. 

Jon shrugged. He looked just as confused about that one as Richie was, which was both reassuring and irritating in all its mystery. "I'd be damned if I knew. Sometimes, people can block memories, make them think that they never existed in the first place." He waited a moment for that to sink in. Richie thought about that, and it made sense, in some strange way. There was nothing else, really, that he could think of that could account for his memory that only returned when it was told to him. Resolving to look deeper into it later, Richie sat back down at the table. 

They were together. They had a fight and he walked out without a word while they were supposed to be asleep. It all felt familiar, and little bits and pieces of memories - them arguing, and then apologizing, falling to sleep, but then Richie had gotten up and packed all of his belongings, unsure of so many things. He, later, for some varying reasons that all seemed to point to him having blocked those memories, forgot all about it but still, years later, Jon had seemed familiar. 

' _I live in a world that hates me.'_ Richie thought, resigned. 

That would explain everything. 

Richie took a deep breathe. It was like a whirlwind of information that he'd been wanting but now didn't know what to deal with. He still felt confused and a little angry that this had all been kept from him, but that could wait. Anger didn't seem to be an emotion that either of them dealt with well. "What happened to your hand?" Richie asked. It felt like such a small question compared to the ones asked earlier, and that's what they needed. Jon looked startled and confused and like he didn't know what Richie was talking about for a minute until he remembered and, then, looked borderline embarrassed. "I threw more than just that mug." He explained in that typically cryptic way that he seemed to have perfected. 

Nodding, Richie looked back down at the table, not sure about what more was supposed to be said. He had all his answers, technically, and he could just stand up and walk away. There was no reason to stay but a thousand reasons to not. Richie had things to do, yet here felt like the place he really needed to be. "What are we supposed to do next?" 

Jon huffed, refusing to meet his eyes. "I don't have all the answers." 

They could pretend that this all never happened. Maybe even act like they didn't know each other for all the years that they did, in fact, be the one person that they each depended on most. But that didn't feel right and Richie, even as confused as he was, didn't want that. At the same time, they were both in a bad mental place, and after everything that had all happened, that didn't feel right either. Jon looked up toward the ceiling, seeming to take every chance not to look back at Richie. "We're too damaged. Chipped away. What is it, Richie, that you feel right now?" It was a demand, said in that scratchy, quiet tone. 

_Confused. Worried. Angry. Sad._

_Love._

_It's been buried, but yet it remains._

_"_ I feel like as if I've aged thousand years in an hour." Richie laughed.

He got stony silence in return. 

"I'm lonely, but that only makes it worse, right? It's all very muddled in here..." Richie motioned to his head, trying to explain it the best he could. "I still love you, but it's so..." _Weird. Odd. Strange. Unusual. "_ I don't know. I just don't." Hopelessly, Richie looked at Jon with desperation and asked for him to take it over and say his piece, decide and put it all to rest.

Jon was frowning. He was picking at the bandages on his hand and thinking. It was hard to tell about what. "Maybe someday, if that's the soft of thing you want, but you just went through a breakup, and I....well, who knows. We need to find ourselves and just, you know, discover each other again. Friends, is what I'm trying to say. And we need to help ourselves before we can help each other." Jon's voice took a hoarse turn and he cleared his throat. 

For some reason, the words hurt. Richie didn't know why because they all sounded right, meant to be. They didn't even know each other anymore, years had scarred them. Older. Damaged. Ridden with too many bullet holes to find out what remained. "Yeah." Richie nodded.

_Yeah_

Richie went to stand up, but then paused. "Jon, what did- I said things to you, that night. What were they?" 

_Mistakes_

Jon allowed himself a thin-lipped smile. "Some corpses are best left buried."

_Oh._

Richie suddenly wanted to leave more than anything in the world. The questions about their life _before_ that remained could wait. But it still didn't feel right, leaving, and he didn't want to leave at the same time, didn't want to close the door. But he knew it was open. The door was open, just locked. "I'll see you later, Jon?" 

It came out as a question. 

The door opened. Richie was half-way out, and his mind was racing. 

"Yup." Jon said, and the door closed. 

But it didn't lock. 

=

That night, Richie dreamed again. 

They were young, vibrant, full of life. 

Once again, the park was the place of choice, and children and fathers and mothers were there, laughing and playing. Above, the sun is itself be known with its blazing shine. 

The tree was there.

But so was Jon, leaning against it casually, alive. And he smiled, and reached out with one hand. 

And Richie, in this hazy dream world, leaned foward, and grabbed it. 


	10. Fights

The next day, Richie had a job interview. 

Afterwards, he yearned for somebody to talk to and, after a few moments of contemplation, called his mother. Richie hoped that she hadn't gone to sleep, seeing as is was still partially light outside, but couldn't be sure until the dial tone stopped. "I was wondering when you were going to call back." She said in greeting. A dog was barking, and it wasn't too much of a stretch for Richie to assume that it was the Labrador retriever that she'd bought a few years back. "Yeah. I did what I needed to do." Richie said, sitting down on the couch and rubbing his temple. "How have you been doing, mom?" Now that he was actually talking to somebody, and not as stressed as he had been previously, Richie wondered if he needed a friend. Somebody he didn't know previously, no past, no nothing, just a person who he could talk to without worry. "I've been alright. Do you remember the woman who lives next-door? Lynn? Yes, well, her and I have recently been trading tips about gardening and such, and so she's been providing some company." 

Richie was glad to hear that his mother had been getting some sort of socialization. She'd always been somewhat of an introverted woman and without the main two people she spent time around, only the dog had to have been providing company. "That's nice. I remember that I used to hang out with her kids after school. Have you thought about maybe joining a church club like you were talking about?" He asked. 

Mrs. Sambora sighed, "All I get is sympathy from them. I want to have a conversation with them that doesn't revolve around the funeral or your father, as much as I miss him. How is it going with your job?" 

"Hopeful. I went to an interview today and they seemed to like me. I have quite a good resumé, after all." Richie grinned. He hadn't been very sure that the interview would go well when he'd been showering that morning, and had felt like his heart was showing to beat out of his chest when he was dressing, but now, there was a sure confidence in his mind that he still had hope for the future. "Oh, Richard. I just knew that you could do it. You're gonna get that job, I just know it." 

They talked for a few more minutes about all sorts of things, about one of Richie's uncle's that recently got divorced and then about a new baby in the family. Richie remembered that he'd wanted to ask his mother about certain events, and when there was a break in her rant about how cute babies were (there was a tone of longing in her voice that he tried hard to ignore) Richie took his chance. "Mom, I have a question for you, and I want you to be honest, 'kay?" 

His mother sounded puzzled now. "Is everything alright, hon?" 

_Much better than they were before._ Richie took a deep breathe and stood in order to pace around his kitchen. The fact that he had barely spent any time relaxing in this new apartment didn't escape him. "Do you remember Jon, mom? Jon Bongiovi?" 

Silence met his question. 

"Uh, blonde? A few years younger than me, blue eyes, I moved in with him back in the 80s?" Or Jon moved in with Richie, the difference was indistinguishable. 

That seemed to jog her memory. Apparently, not remembering ran in the family. "Oh, yes. Very sweet boy. You two were...together, weren't you?" 

Richie smiled at the awkwardness. His mother, accepting as she was, definitely wasn't used to such a thing, even after so many years. He wished that he could remember when she first found out, but trying to recall the memory just left him swimming in a hazy sea of forgotten years. "Yeah, him. I was just thinking about, you know, us, and was wondering if you remembered when I returned home? I can't remember for the life of me. Just bits and pieces." He waited for an answer. 

"Well, you were angry, and distraught at the same time. You said that you two had gotten into a big fight, and that he was impossible to talk to when he was upset like that. You told me and your father that you didn't want to talk about him. You were very firm on that, honey." 

Firm enough, apparently, that he managed to convince his very persistent parents never to talk about Jon again. 

Richie rubbed his eyes. "And you guys never brought it up?" He asked.

Over the phone, a kettle whistled loudly, and the sound of footsteps could be heard. "A few years later, your father mentioned it. You didn't seem to remember, and we just assumed that you had moved on." 

Now that he was thinking about it, Richie could remember his father saying 'Do you remember that fellow you used to hang out with? The barber's son?' and he hadn't remembered. His parents had exchanged mildly concerned looks but his mother then pointed out how beautiful her flowers looked and the question had fallen away, unanswered. 

The dog was barking. Mrs. Sambora shushed it, and said something softly, unintelligible. "Why are you asking, Richard? Is something wrong? Is this..." _What you had to fix?_ The rest of the question didn't quite make it, dying halfway and laying there. "Oh! Jeopardy is on." 

The sudden change in tone was enough to make Richie laugh. He could remember how his mother used to demand that everybody had to be quiet whenever 'her show' came on. "I'll leave you to it, mom. I love you, be safe." 

His mother returned the affections, and then they hung up, leaving Richie to ponder this new information. It was like hearing what he'd known all along, because there was no real surprise, which was odd. 

There were still some questions, though. Questions that could wait. 

Richie needed to stop before he gave himself a headache with all these uncertainties. 

He was about to sit down and watch a movie when he began to hear yelling. Richie looked toward the door, startled, as the yelling continued. A part of him wanted to just ignore it, after all, he had enough on his plate without anybody else's problems adding up, but then he stood up and made his way to the door just in case a scuffle was happening. Richie had a fear, maybe irrational, maybe not, of something happening and him ignoring the wanting signs when he could've done something about it. 

Opening the door, it became quickly apparent who was fighting. 

"Let _go_ of me!" Alec yelled. His voice rang out sharply, and Richie was able to discern where the yelling was coming from. He began to go down the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

Something loud smacked against the wall, and it seemed to echo. Richie began to walk a little faster. 

Rounding the corner on the first floor, Richie immediately saw a familiar figure holding back another guy, and it took him a second to recognize Tico, who had a desperate grip on Nikki's arms, and was pulling him back. That was the first thing Richie saw, and then he heard a furious grunt. "Did you hear what he said?" Alec demanded. 

David sighed, "Anybody who can hear heard what he said. Hey, Rich, can you help me-ow-out a bit here? Alec's stronger than he looks." As he said that, Alec managed to escape his grip and tried to launch himself at Nikki, if not for Richie doing as asked and blocking the way. 

Alec _was_ stronger than he looked. 

Behind them, Nikki was trying to make a break for it and Tico was having hell of a time trying to hold him back. It was like a schoolyard scuffle, if not for the sheer intensity in which Alec was trying to fight his way out of the grip that Richie had on him. "You're pathetic." Nikki sneered, and Tico said, "Shut up." In response. Whatever had happened was obviously angering enough on both sides to send them both in a frenzy. Despite the apparent anger and the potential for bloodletting, Richie was glad to see what he wasn't the only one having problems. He heard footsteps on the stairwell, but couldn't turn to see who had joined the party. 

Eventually, Alec seemed to grow exhausted and settled down, his chest rising and falling rapidly, fists clenched but no longer trying to make an escape. Richie turned, and was relieved to see that Nikki had also calmed down, though there was a bright glint in his eyes that suggested he was still prepared to try and fight. Tommy was standing there, serving as the shield between Nikki and Alec, and two more people had also joined the fight. Richie hadn't been aware that they'd been causing such a commotion. There was a man standing on the other side of Nikki, an older guy with dark hair who was incredibly unfamiliar, and Jon was still standing on the stairs, a pensive look on his face.

David deemed it safe enough to let go of Alec. 

"What is this, fight club?" The stranger said, looking between everybody with narrowed, incredulous eyes. "Don't give them any ideas." Jon sighed as he walked down the rest of the steps and went to grab Alec's arm. "C'mon." He urged. Alec was still glaring, but he went willingly. Or maybe not so willingly. Point was, they disappeared up the stairs, and finally, Tico let go. 

Nikki scowled. "You should've let me go." He said, but it was unclear if he was talking to Tico or Tommy or the stranger, who merely shrugged, as if unbothered. Tommy grabbed his arm, but made no move to try and he him to leave. " _You_ shouldn't have said that." He replied. 

Tico shook his head. "I'm too old for this." He sighed, turning on his heel and walking away. "I'm going to check on Al and Jon. David, do not linger!" 

The blonde scoffed. "Yes, _mother."_ He said with a grin. 

Richie crossed his arms. Tommy directed Nikki away, and David also walked away, bidding goodbye with more cheer than necessary. Which left just Richie and the stranger, who just stood there awkwardly. 

Leaning foward, Richie offered one of his hands. "My name's Richie Sambora. I just moved here a few weeks ago." 

The stranger accepted the offer with a nod. "Dr. Jeff Beck. Nice to meet you." 


	11. To Be

Dr. Jeff Beck was pleasant, but awkward. He obviously wasn't used to just casual conversation, and though Richie thought he was nice, there was a small amount of relief when they parted ways. The conversation had felt forced and more than a little perfunctory. "If you need help with anything, just come to me. I live just two doors down from David Bryan, do you know where he lives?" Dr. Beck paused on the steps as he awaited a response. Richie nodded, "Yeah. Thanks for the offer, I appreciate it." He replied. Usually, he loved talking to people, but life has just become too stressful and talking to people, and being as nonchalant as could be, had become to get tiring. There were so many things that held questions nowadays, and though Richie needed to find the answers, there he was, making small talk. It just didn't feel right at all. "Good. Just keep me in mind." Dr. Beck said, and then he disappeared up the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the halls. The loneliness set in again. Richie sighed and rubbed his eyes, feeling as if he were bouncing back and forth between emotions like a ping pong ball. 

There was nowhere else to go, and so Richie went back to his apartment, unsure of what to do. Watching TV and forgetting, if only for a little bit, no longer seemed like a good idea, and for a few minutes of indecisiveness, Richie just stood in the dining room and scratched his nail absently against the worn wood of the table. It was an admittedly bad habit of his, since it was starting to wear on his nails, but quitting habits just didn't seem like a priority. 

And then Richie remembered the tape recorder, and realized how important that thing was. It held the key to moments long forgotten. It was just laying there in another room, and Richie hadn't even picked it up, much less went to go listen to the other cassettes. In his defence, a tape recorder and cassettes were lost in the confusion much easier than any person. 

Walking back to where he had left the player, and the cassettes scattered around it, Richie dropped to his knees and opened the player back up. He switched the cassettes, even though he hadn't finished the first one, and hit play. 

It felt right, being taken back to a time when everything was normal. 

Or, at least, Richie assumed. 

_"We could always run away."_ _Jon said, too casually for it to have been anything but a weak joke. "Go and live in the woods or something. It would be an adventure." He continued, talking more to himself than anybody else. The room they were in was dark, a simultaneous product of both the night outside and the lack of suitable lighting in the apartment itself. Richie laughed, and it took him a minute to find Jon's hand and curl their fingers together. "Oh, yeah?" He said with a small smile beginning to tug at his lips. "What'll happen if a bear comes?"_

_Rolling into his stomach and using his elbows to prop himself up, Jon leaned down and kissed Richie deeply but quickly, leaving him wanting more. "I'll protect you." Jon said, deepening his voice. "I'll use my-" he broke away into laughter, and Richie snickered, hands entangled into the back of the younger man's hair. "I'll use my wits. We can- I'll, shit, what's the word?"_

_They'd both been drinking too much. Richie tossed his head back and laughed so loudly that it's a wonder the police weren't called. "You need to learn the alphabet again, Jonny?" He teased, and Jon huffed, rolling his eyes and then covering them. "I'll, ah, use my fists. I'll punch that goddamn bear." He said it seriously, but Richie couldn't take it and had to sit up to regain his breathe after a laughing fit. It wasn't even that funny, but there was something about it- them switching places, Jon becoming the jokester and Richie entertaining him instead of the other way around, that made it that much more hilarious to him._

_"So, what's your stance? Run away with me, leave behind all of this in show of your utter dedication to- I sound like I'm a cult leader!" Jon shook his head. "Come join my cult, Richard." He said in a mocking voice, sounding like the narrator of the twilight zone as he did so._

_Richie raised his eyebrows. "Are all the members as handsome as you?" He asked, pretending to consider it. They were acting like stupid kids again, pretending and telling jokes that would make any sober person look skeptical, but it was fun. The real world, and the reality of what was happening, fell away, replaced by a painting of fun and antics. Jon hummed, "Yes. But you're mine. Forever and ever until we both die." He said._

Forever and ever. Until their hearts gave out and couldn't support them anymore. Oh, what a mess that had turned out. Richie sighed and put in the third tape, his heart beginning to ache as the memories resurfaced like zombies from a swamp, slowly and almost in a lethargic manner. 

To think such an important piece of his life had been stashed away was shocking, and had just been sitting there in three separate garages, and then a closet, for years and years. 

_It was dark. They were sitting on the roof of the apartment building, a cigarette being passed back and forth, the tape recorder sitting between them. A lone bird was scavenging a few feet away, cooing softly and pecking at the concrete in search for spare crumbs. Richie watched the bird for awhile, and then as he passed the cigarette back, caught the gaze of the man sitting opposite of him. "We look like polar opposites." He said after a moment's thought. Jon smiled, "We are polar opposites, baby." He replied._

_That wasn't what Richie had meant, and he shook his head. "No, like, I dunno. I'm dark-haired, you're blonde. Now, at least. I'm brown-eyed, and you're blue-eyed. I'm all pale and you've got a tan. It's like the sun and the moon, right?" It was the ramblings of a wandering mind, and didn't really make sense, or matter. Jon looked up at the moon, a pale globe that helped illuminate the darkness of the sky. "Sometimes, you have a tan." He said, just to respond, and then they lapsed into silence._

_After a bit, Jon didn't give the cigarette back, and Richie looked at him, confused. Jon looked in thought, and so that's where Richie left him, until he spoke, slowly but surely. "But you're much more cheerful than I am. You're so happy and kind, so wouldn't you be the sun, figuratively?"_

The sound broke off. Richie leaned foward, frowning, but it must've been turned off for whatever reason, because it resumed a minute later.

_Richie splayed his fingers. "We can both be the sun!" He said, like a genius unveiling his newest invention. Jon had moved and was now sitting beside him, shoul_ _der-to-shoulder, looking at the bird, still trying to find food. "And how will we do that?" He asked._

_"Easy." Richie said, unbothered. "We'll share it."_


	12. The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song lyrics written here belong to Jon Bon Jovi and affiliated.

"People have nightmares all the time. That doesn't mean that the sky is falling." Jon said. He took a sip of his coffee and looked over the laptop at where Richie was, bouncing his leg and staring off at the wall like it had suddenly become the most interesting place in the world in the past fifteen or so seconds. Richie sighed and considered those words, wondering if coming to Jon about the dreams had been a good idea after all, because it appeared that his sympathy may have been skewed. "No, you're not listening." Richie said, running a hand through his hair and resisting the urge to yell. He was low on patience, which was very unlike him. Usually, it took hours of getting on his nerves to so much as be snapped at. "I'm not saying that the sky is falling or that the next plane I get on is gonna crash. Point _is,_ that the dreams have been happening nearly every night, and that they really aren't even that important because they are only just like a stepping stone to this whole-" Richie motioned around himself, unsure of what he was supposed to call it. Names, names, what did they matter? Richie rubbed the bridge of his nose and tried to ward off an incoming headache. 

"And only one of them was a nightmare, really." 

It was an unnecessary detail. Richie didn't even know if it was true at all because those dreams had frightened him, had made his heart race and thoughts get muddled. But he didn't want to say that, for reasons beyond a rational thought process. 

Jon sipped at his coffee, found it empty, and stood up to get more. His laptop was open, and he'd been messing around with it for at least the last half hour. Richie wondered if he was working, and felt guilty about that. "Are you busy right now?" He asked, and Jon made a noise that was too rough and choppy to be considered a laugh. "I think we're beyond that." Jon said, sitting back down and pulling a pad of paper and pen closer to himself. It was undeniable that he was a little friendlier than previous encounters had proved, but Jon still had a coldness to his eyes and a sharpness to his voice that reminded Richie of so many things that he couldn't remember, a constant sense of having forgotten information that was more than valuable at this point. "What do you work as?" Richie asked, trying to make small talk. He felt antsy and nervous, so the chair was pushed back and he stood up and began to walk. 

There was no answer for a moment. "Ghost writer." Jon finally mumbled, looking preoccupied with whatever he was doing. Richie raised his eyebrows, undeniably surprised. Ghost writing wasn't something he had expected, then again, he hadn't really put much thought to it. "Cool." Richie said, for lack of a better response. He paused in the kitchen, which smelt strongly of bleach and some other strong-smelling cleaner. "Can I use your bathroom?" He asked. Jon didn't look up, just pointed the tip of his pen toward the hallway. There was a distinct feeling of awkwardness lingering in the air, and perhaps it was a mistake, coming here. Richie closed the door to the bathroom and leaned down, turning on the faucet before splashing the cold water on his face liberally. It woke him up a little bit, cleared his mind. Richie was reminded of a memory, dim and distant, of him and Jon years ago, at the same park from the dreams, skipping rocks in the placid water. 

Richie felt a little reassured by the memory. It was comforting, in a way. He was starting to remember, and it was a sweet little moment in his mind, laughter and talking mingled with deep affection and care. It provides a sense of calm, and Richie felt a little better when he stepped out of the bathroom. 

And then he noticed the master bedroom. 

The door hadn't been closed fully, and Richie could see partially into the room, could see a bed and dressed and, for a moment, his curiosity spiked. Richie told himself no, and moved away, but his interest was spiked, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from what he could see. It was wrong, Richie knew, and that's why he struggled with it, just lingering near the bathroom and considering it it was really a good idea. And it wasn't a good idea, but what little answers regarding their past that Richie had managed to extract were not helping. 

' _He won't catch you. In and out, just a brief look. You'll probably find something.'_ That little voice at the back of Richie's head, the one that always got him into trouble, was back. Richie looked back to where he could hear typing, and threw a prayer to whoever to listening. This could make and break a lot of things, but Richie just hoped that it would be worth it in the end. He'd done a lot of stupid things in his life, but _this_ was a whole new level. 

The room was almost impressive in all its neatness. Not a single speck of dust could be found, which was a little obsessive, but Richie wasn't exactly in a position to judge. Frank the cat was laying on the bed, and he hissed, leaping off and dodging into the hall so fast that it was like a speeding bullet. Richie watched him go, staying still and quiet just in case Jon were to investigate why his cat was suddenly in a panic, but there was nothing, and he continued. 

The dresser had the usual things on it- a watch, cologne, some of the papers that looked reminiscent of the ones that Jon had been so desperate not to let him see back when Richie had stayed out for the night. Richie frowned and peered at some of the messy scrawl, having trouble discerning what had been written in what looked like a hurry to get it done. 

_The light of love can blind you 'til you cover up your eyes_

_And you try to find the reason not to say good bye_

_It's the curse of every sailor standing on dry land_

_Staring at your window with a suitcase in my hand_

The words spoke to Richie better than he'd ever admit. Beneath that script of lyrics were more pages, some scratched out, others standing out like gold amongst coal. Memories of a pen scratching against paper, and hours of frustration regarding not getting a lyric right or not remembering the right word, resurfaced. Richie set the paper back down and turned back around. 

Something caught his eye- Richie walked foward a night stand that was placed right beside the bed, a small table that was home to a book and a clock and a small picture. 

The woman in the picture had short, dark hair, equally dark eyes, and despite the smile that was playing on her lips, there was no joy or happiness in her eyes. It was like she was only doing it because it was expected of her to smile, and then as soon as the camera was off or directed somewhere else, the smile would fall away. Sitting next to her was Jon, younger and happier but undeniably the man in the dining room. His hair was longer than it was, with strands of blonde hanging from a sea of brown, but it was him. Richie picked up the frame, his heart feeling like it was pummeling as he saw the identical rings on their fingers, a golden band and a silver one, undeniably wedding rings. 

"What the hell?" He whispered to himself, turning the frame over in his hands, as if expecting a clue to this whole mystery to be on the back of it, but there was nothing, and Richie looked back to the photo, at the happy, or maybe not so happy, couple. There were so many questions to this revelation that it made Richie's head spin, and he whirled around, frame in hand, and walked back to the dining room. 

Jon didn't look up when Richie entered the room, but he did startle when the frame was set down on the table, banging harshly against the wood. He saw the picture and, for a moment, Richie could see a myriad of emotions, sadness and anger and pain, and then the shutters closed and neutrality took over once again. 

"Nosy, much?" Jon said, leaning over the table to retrieve the frame. It was quickly grabbed by Richie, who moved away and carefully avoided the harsh gaze coming from familiar blue eyes. "Is this why you're so distant? Because you're married?" Richie asked. He felt oddly betrayed, though there was no reason for him to feel this way. Jon sneered and held out his hand. "Give that to me." He demanded, and Richie did hand the frame over, watching as it was tucked protectively close to Jon's chest. 

This whole thing was starting to get exhausting. "What the fuck is that-" Richie motioned to the picture. "-about?" 

Seemingly unbothered now that he had the picture, Jon sat back down and began to tap on his laptop again. "It's none of your business." 

No, it wasn't. Richie knew this, but looking back at that photo, and seeing the rings, brought unfamiliar emotions up to the surface. He sat down on the couch, knowing that he had no right to know, really, but then he looked at Jon's hands, and saw no ring, just gauze and a sort of hopeless emptiness. 

"Yeah. But it's just..." Richie couldn't find the words, and so he just sat there, listening to the silence. He debated on just leaving, going back to his apartment, or maybe just take a walk, but then Jon sighed, and crossed his arms on the table, resting his on head on them. 

"Her name was Janie." Jon said softly, his eyes closed. "She commit suicide a year ago." 


	13. Job

_"_ Oh." 

_Oh._

Somebody knocked on the door, loud and clear. It broke them from the moment, and Jon stood, leaving behind his workstation and the picture, which sat there, staring, with blank eyes and bright smiles. It was disturbing, though it was hard for Richie to put his finger on what exactly was unnerving him. Maybe it was the fact that the woman was dead, that this photograph was one of the only remaining pieces of her that tied into the world. The locks on the door were undone, and Richie could hear them sliding out of place, even though he wasn't anywhere near the door. Despite this, Jon must've closed the door to talk to whoever was there, because the talking sounded like mumbling, and it forced Richie to strain his ears to try and hear what was being said. He could make out faint words, ' _Time'_ and ' _Death'_ and ' _Photograph'_ , words with no real meaning that could be discerned. Richie pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breathe, and then realized that Jon had walked back into the room. "I'm meeting somebody." He said, carefully avoiding eye contact as he shut the laptop and crossed his arms over his chest, almost as if to act as a shield. 

Richie nodded. "Okay. Listen, I'm sorry." He said, truly apologetic for the show, wishing dearly that he'd just left well enough alone and not let his curiosity become overwhelming. Richie stood, knowing that he couldn't do much, now. The photograph felt like an omen. Those eyes stared at him with cruel intent, despite their technical blankness. They would haunt him, though, really, it was just dramatics. Jon sneered, looking away and toward the floor. "No, you aren't." He said, and, for a moment, Richie paused and looked at him. "I really am. I shouldn't have pushed it." He said, his tone becoming defensive. God, this situation was beginning to change him, and not for the better. 

Shaking his head, Jon looked frustrated. "Just go." He said, rubbing a hand over his face. Richie didn't linger, crossing the apartment in a few quick strides. They'd talked, and then fought. Could that have been called a fight? No, not really. He and Cher had fought like cats and dogs, what had just happened was more of a revelation that didn't come out naturally, like it should've. 

Dr. Beck was on the other side of the door. "Hi, Richie." He said, tone cool and casual, and it sent shivers up Richie's spine, making him grit his teeth and force down a harsh rebuttal for the greeting. Richie turned to the other man, "Nice to see you." He forced out. It was the best thing he could manage, still a little shaken from the reveal. Dr. Beck smiled thinly, the sort that made it look like he was unused to such an expression. "Are you alright? You look a little shaken." He commented. It, on paper, had the tone of a concerned acquaintance, but coming from Jeff Beck, it sounded wrong. "Yes. Jon and I just had a-it's not important, really." Richie shrugged. 

"Well, Jon is a very hard person to get along with." Dr. Beck said, hitching his satchel further up his shoulder and then walking inside. "I'll see you later. Business as usual." He said, as common courtesy, before closing the door. Richie watched him go, and then stood there, still as a statue, staring at the door and feeling an uncertain mix of emotions.

For some reason, Richie had naturally assumed that Jon had stayed single. Not that he expected him to have stayed celibate for all these years, but it had just seemed natural. But hearing that, not only did he have a wife, but that she was _dead,_ felt like just another blow to the already fragile and crumbling surface. Richie started down the stairs, his hand sliding along the railing. Jon had been married, and the woman, Janie, had committed suicide. Why was a mystery, how was a mystery, it was just _there._ The picture, framing her for eternity. The frame, right beside Jon's bed, on his night stand, a constant remembrance of what he'd lost. It made Richie think of his father, and how he could barely look at the pictures at his mother's house because it didn't feel right, seeing him, young and health and then deteriorating because of some selfish, cruel disease that took what it wanted and never gave up. 

Maybe it was different with lovers. Or maybe people processed grief and the aftermath of death differently. Perhaps, Jon liked to be reminded of the woman he had loved enough to marry. Richie tried not to think of his father if he could help it, even though flashes of his face popped up every day, smiling, even when he was so close to death that it seemed to hover like a stormy cloud. 

Alec was at the mailboxes, though he was leaning against them instead of checking for bills and coupons. It reminded Richie of how he hadn't checked the mail yet, which reminded him of bills, who, in turn, brought the memories of a job to Richie's mind. "Hey." Alec said, his lips pulling up into a brief smile. Richie stopped at the bottom stop, thinking of how, the last time they'd seen each other, Alec had looked murderous with rage and Jon was leading him away. "You ain't gonna try to hit me?" Richie joked, and Alec rolled his eyes. He had been scrolling his phone, but now he put it in his pocket and straightened up, almost automatically. "Ha-ha, funny man. Listen, have you ever just, I dunno, hated somebody for no reason?" Alec asked. 

That made Richie pause and think. What a weird question, so sudden. 

Did he hate certain people? Yes, but always for a reason. "Nah, we always had some big blowup beforehand or something. Why?" Richie said. But then he knew, and hurried to interrupt before an answer became forthcoming. "Are you talking 'bout Nikki?" Richie asked, and he got a nod in return. "Okay, not for _no reason,_ because he's really a huge-just, he's annoying, okay? But I hate him, and there's no really good reason." Alec ran a hand through his short hair, looking conflicted. 

' _Am I really qualified to give advice right now?'_ Richie thought. The answer was a firm and resounding _no,_ but he couldn't just leave Alec there, obviously in need of help. Richie stepped down the last stair and shoved his hand sin to his pockets, thinking. He really didn't know what he was supposed to say. "Well, Tico, or David, I can't remember, told me that you two had a big fight and then, apparently, Nikki said something...?" Richie trailed off, eyebrows raised. Alec winced and sighed, as if the memory hurt him. "We go years back. Both Nikki and I play bass, though, obviously, _that_ didn't to anywhere. He and I tried out for the same band, but they chose him and I just sort of...God, I acted like a real jerk. Said things about him that I shouldn't have. He didn't deserve that, no matter what kind of guy he was or is." Alec scratched the back of his neck, almost like he needed something to do with his hands. "It was a pure coincidence, us moving into the same apartment building. We avoided each other good but...Well, we both like our pride, and he told me- fuck." Alec rubbed his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks, or, at least, ever since the fight. His hair was messy, teeth ground together. 

Richie watched him, careful not to push. He looked at the door, but did not open it. "What'd he say? You don't have to tell me, but I think it would do wonders." He said. Alec lowered his hands, shaking his head, almost regretfully. "I've always had trouble fitting in. Nikki knows this, we went to the same college. That really didn't go anywhere, either, but that's not the point. He taunted me like a schoolboy, okay? I felt like a little kid again, being bullied just because I didn't know what to at or how to say it. I've always had a short temper." Alec said with a small laugh. "This is stupid. Am I keeping you from something?" 

' _Just from going back to my empty apartment.'_

Richie shook his head. "No, you're good, man. Listen, I don't think I am the best guy around here to give you some advice but, maybe try and see it from his side? 'Cause it sounds like you, don't quote me, are jealous of him." 

That hadn't come out right. Richie rushed to rectify his mistake, but Alec was nodding along, stroking his beard like a villain from an old movie. "Yeah, yeah, that makes sense." He said. 

Richie couldn't keep himself from sighing in relief. "And maybe Nikki feels bad, in his own way, but doesn't know how to express it?" Richie didn't know when he'd become a therapist, but it seemed to be working out well, all things considered. "I think you're both too raw from that fight to do much but in a week or sometime then, you could try and find Tommy to help sort things out?" 

Alec looked almost excited by the prospect. "I like that." He said. "You are a lifesaver, really. Thank you. I almost had to go to the good doctor to ask for help." 

It was a safe assumption that he was talking about Beck. Richie caught the apprehension in Alec's tone and nodded, understanding what the implication was. Beck seemed nice, but odd, like an alien fit into a human's clothing who didn't yet understand the customs and traditions of society. "Yeah. Glad I could help you out, and good for you for taking that initiative." _God knows that I can't._

-

Richie got the job. 

When the call came in, he was watching mindless television and trying to take his mind off of everything. He lay on the couch, legs dangling off of the end, and then his phone rang. Richie startled, blinking out of the case that he'd gone into, and promptly reached for the phone, wondering who would be called him. His mother, maybe. For a second, the thought of Cher danced in his head, but that was ruled out as soon as Richie saw the unfamiliar caller ID. 

"Hello?" He said, putting the phone to his ear and awaiting a reply. It stretched on for a moment, and then- "Mr. Sambora?" The voice, light and cheery, was familiar, despite the number, and the dots connected automatically. And then fear, and apprehension, formed within himself, knowing that there was a chance that they were just calling to say that Richie wasn't the person for the job. 

But he was. Richie was starting in three days, and despite some less than pleasant feelings about having to go back to work, there was some relief that he would be able to pay the bills and ensure that, at least, his finances were in order. 

Because his life sure as hell wasn't. 


	14. Accident

Richie heard a loud thump overhead. 

Looking up, he stared up, startled, at the ceiling. It sounded like something heavy had fallen, and, for a moment, Richie thought about a certain man who occupied his thoughts more than what was healthy, really. Jon's apartment was nearly on top of his, and Richie felt a spike of worry that he quickly tried to brush off. Richie had probably annoyed whoever lived below him more than once- but he could tell something was off. It was like a sixth sense, and Richie hated it, because all he wanted to do was make macaroni and cheese but _no,_ life wasn't done with him yet. 

His first day at work had gone swimmingly. The people were nice, and though writing reports all day was hardly a nice way to spend so many hours, it was all routine. Richie liked his job, but if he could back in time, one of the many things he would do would be to go a different career path. 

Looking back down at his pot of lukewarm water, Richie sighed and placed it on the counter. Best case scenario involved Jon just having dropped a pan on the ground while cooking, and worst case scenario involved a burglary. Richie just knew something was going on, and so he grabbed his phone, and then found his pocket knife. Not bothering to close the door behind him, Richie managed to catch the elevator and stood there, leaning against the wall, feeling the vibrations of grinding machinery as the elevator went up, up, up until it reached the proper floor. 

_'Am I really worried, or am I just looking for excuses to see him?'_ Richie thought. He couldn't come up with an answer, because maybe he already knew. After the last encounter a few days previous that ended with the doctor interrupting them, Richie had been, perhaps irrationally, worried about something happening. He had gotten the distinct impression that Jon wasn't in the best mental space, which was probably why he was seeing Dr. Beck in the first place. Richie hoped dearly that it was working out. 

Coming to the door, Richie raised his hand, knocked, and then watched as the door creaked open slightly, just a few inches. Richie realized that it has already been open and hadn't properly latched behind whoever had last entered. It was entirely plausible that Jon had just not checked, but Richie didn't think so. The idea just didn't _seem_ like something that Jon would usually do. Richie didn't know why he thought that why, he just did. 

Grasping the cold doorknob between his fingers, Richie carefully peered through the gap. The lights were off, but sunlight was coming in through the windows, bathing the apartment in a pale glow. Richie pressed his hand against where his pocket knife was, tucked into his jeans pocket, and slipped through the gap. He was fully prepared to come across a ski-mask-wearing asshole, though what would happen when they crossed paths was a mystery. Richie wasn't exactly the karate kid, and even with that knife, there was a big chance of him losing whatever fight there may be. 

Or maybe Jon was inside and was going to get irritated because Richie had entered his apartment without permission. 

The kitchen was right to the left. Richie could see one side of it, which was empty, but the rest of it was blocked by a wall. He couldn't see it without going inside, but if his calculations were correct, the kitchen was right where that thump had come from. 

Richie, very slowly, peered in through the doorway. He could see a familiar black and white cat, and he could tell there was a person, just out of sight. But it wasn't Jon- whoever it may be was too tall, and judging by the shadow painted on the floor, had longer hair. Richie considered, for a single, brief moment, just leaving, but immediately brushed the thought away and, as carefully as he could, tried to catch a glimpse as to who it was. 

"How can you eat this stuff, Frankie? It smells like fish." David's familiar voice said in a judgemental tone, and Richie sighed, relieved that it wasn't a burglar, because he had no real plan as to how to deal with something like that. He rounded the corner, hand right over his pounding heart, and David startled, blinking and straightening up from where he was bent down, scraping the cat food from the can. " _Jeez Louise!_ Talk about sudden. Whatcha doin' here?" David asked, tossing the can in the trash and then putting the fork that he'd been using on the counter next to the sink. 

Richie motioned toward the ceiling. "I heard you drop something and thought I'd go investigate." He answered. "Thought there was a burglar or something." 

David laughed, moving away from him and into the living room. "Yeah, yeah. Clumsy old me, dropped the cat's water bowl because he was getting all tangled up in my feet." Shaking his head, David advanced into different rooms, and Richie followed him, since there was really nothing left to do. "He keeps leaving all the faucets on, too. Can't drive up the water bill." As he said that, David shut off a faucet that was trickling water ever so slightly. 

Looking around the room, Richie could see that Jon's bedroom, far from the pristine condition it'd been in prior, was now a cluttered mess of papers and books and the photograph, laying neatly in the midst of the tangled sheets that were on the bed. 

It was torn in two. 

"What happened in here?" Richie asked, relief turning into a frigid concern. David, opening his mouth to say something, shut it so suddenly that his teeth clicked together audibly. "Where's Jon?" As if hoping to see the other man standing there, just out of sight, Richie looked around the room. The sheets of paper that held lyrics to songs that would never see the light of day were strewn across the dresser, and he walked toward it, curious. Words from different songs criss-crossed into others, creating a mess of words, a cacophony of emotions that all held the same tender melancholy.

_If you're ugly I'm ugly too, in your eyes the sky's a different blue_

_Sitting here just watching you sleep, wish I could slip inside and be in some technicolor dream_

_There's no love, there's no hate, I left them there for you to take, but know that every word was a piece of my heart_

_It's time to pack my bags, time to just move on, she said 'Johnny I'm gone, gone gone.' And she was gone._

_Damn the fool who begs for more, I'll take my past and paint it black_

And then, written at the bottom of each, were names. Sometimes, that name was Janie, and then it was Richie, back and forth like Jon hadn't decided which one was right. David cleared his throat and awkwardly shuffled around, his shoes dragging on the floor. Richie turned back, confused, his worry becoming more and more pronounced with each passing moment. "What happened here?" Richie repeated, and David heaved out a great sigh, leaning against the threshold of the door with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. "Uh...Jon's, sort of, in the hospital. Temporarily, of course!" David hastened to add when Richie paled, his mind racing. 

"For what?" Richie asked, moving to sit down on the bed. He hadn't seen Jon since that day, but considering how reclusive he seemed to be, that was hardly surprising. "Somebody hit him with their car. He was upset over something and didn't see them before it was too late, but it's not anything severe. He's being discharged in two days." Dave started to pick at a loose hem on his sweater. "I've been coming by, feeding the cat, making sure everything is A-OK." 

The words were repeating themselves in Richie's mind, a mantra from the deepest depths of his own personal hell. _Jon's in the hospital. Hit by a car. Hospital. Car._ "How hurt is he?" Richie asked, mouth suddenly dry. He started shaking his head, almost compulsively. David went and stood next to me, hesitating briefly before putting his hand on Richie's shoulder in a consoling manner. "Nothing really bad, all things considered. Concussion, two broken ribs, broken wrist, minor bruises and lacerations." He said, listing them off easily. Richie's heart constricted at those words, and he had a sudden mental image of a car barreling out of nowhere and crashing into a lone man in the street.

"He's awake, conscious, a little dazed. Irritable as ever." David laughed softly, shaking his head and brushing away his curly hair. "We've all been talking about what's gonna happen when he comes back home." 

Richie was relieved that Jon was still acting like himself, at least. Richie wondered what could have upset someone so much that they would storm out of the apartment building and not notice a car and, likewise, how a car couldn't notice the person. But it had been raining pretty steadily for the past few days, so maybe that has provided a nice little cover for such accidents. 

"What do you mean?" Richie asked. 

David shrugged and removed his hand, walking away and beginning to sort the papers neatly. He stacked them and pushed them toward the wall. "The doctor says that somebody needs to be with him, at least for the first night, to ensure that all's well and end's well, concussion and all. Alec is out of state because his sister is getting married and Tico is on a deadline, which leaves me. Which I'm fine with, except for one tiny little problem." David turned and rested his body against the dresser. "What?" Richie said, and David smiled thinly, as if he was amused but didn't want to show it. "I'm a teacher. It just so happens that the class and two, including me, supervisors are going on an out of state trip on the day that Jon is discharged and the day after. In my defense, I signed up months ago." 

' _As if things couldn't get any worse.'_ Richie thought, rubbing his temple and considering his choices. "Are you kidding me?" He said, suitably unimpressed with the events of his life lately. "I know, right? So, anyways, I was wondering if you...one of the best people I've ever had a chance of meeting and getting to know...would mind being that person to make sure nothing goes wrong." David sounded hopeful, which just made the whole situation worse. Richie would do it in a heart beat for anybody else, but truth be told, he feared that if he spent more than twenty minutes around Jon, it would all blow up in a catastrophic ending to everything that had been going on. 

"You barely know me, and I'm pretty sure that I'm on Jon's hate list." Richie pointed out, and David nodded. "Yeah, I don't, but I can tell you're a good guy. And if Jon hated you, trust me, it would be a lot more obvious." 

Would it? Richie shook his head, and tried to figure out the best way to put it without revealing anything sensitive. Last thing he needed was to put it all on blast to David, who seemed like the kind of guy who couldn't keep a secret to save his life. 

"If you're talking about that whole incident- the, ah, breakdown- then don't worry about that." David continued, unbothered. "It was a long time coming, as much as I hate to say it. Wait, no, that wasn't the right way to put it...You know what? I shouldn't have asked You in the first place? I could probably convince Nikki to do it, he can be very responsible when it comes down to it." He pulled out his phone and presumably began to search Nikki's number. Richie watched, a million thoughts racing through his head. "What about Jeff Beck? Or is he too busy?" He asked, thinking of the, presumed, therapist or whatever he was. 

David winced. "Ha, yeah, no, that wouldn't go down well. Jeff was the one who made Jon upset in the first place. Nice guy, but I don't think those two are a good idea together." Holding up his finger to earn Richie to be quiet, David pressed a number on his phone and put the phone to his ear. "Yes, hello? Nikki, it's David Bryan from above. No, I think you have the wrong- _no,_ David Rashbaum, remember?" He rolled his eyes for effect and started tapping his foot. Richie could hear the faint response, words that were too quiet to be heard. 

' _What's the worst that could happen?'_

A lot of things could go sideways. Richie had no way of knowing what would happen, but he also knew that he had a strange sense of responsibility toward this. David had said a day- all Richie had to do was ensure that Jon seemed to be in the right mind. 

Reaching out, Richie signaled to David to hang up. 

"Oh, nevermind, Nik. I found somebody else, sorry to bother you. Alec extends his apologies...no, he told me say that. 'Kay, bye." David hung up and sighed, looking exasperated. "I think he was pretending not to know me so he didn't have to do it. Oh, well. You're a real pal, Rich. I owe you big time." David said. "Anything you need, at all, just ask me and I'll help you." 

-

Richie needed some time to think.

And what is a better place to think than outside? 

On his way out of the building, Richie bumped into a certain mind doctor who looked quite flustered, and definitely not like the usual perpetually unfazed man that he'd seemed to be. "Hi, Jeff. You okay?" 

It was evident that he wasn't , but better to ask than assume. 

Dr. Beck sighed and shook his head regretfully. "No. Not really." He brushed past Richie and headed for the stairs, but before he started walking, he turned his head over his shoulder. "One word of advice, before you go." 

Richie raised his eyebrows in question. 

"When you're having trouble with your personal life..." Jeff smiled but no humor could be found. "Don't go into work." 


	15. Smile

Two days, six hours, and one long walk later, Richie found himself standing awkwardly in the middle of a kitchen while David fluttered around him, checking on things that didn't need to be checked, which made Richie want to grab him by the shoulders, shake him, and tell the poor man that everything was okay. But David was a little worrier, in spite of his rather carefree personality, and there as nothing to do besides watch him to around and repeatedly check on the time. "All that needs to be done is make sure that he doesn't kill himself." David said, finally coming to a stop beside Richie as he began to zip up his jacket. "The doctor said he needs to take deep breaths, and to make sure he coughs frequently to clear the fluid from his lungs and make sure he doesn't get Pneumonia." He added, looking around the apartment, almost as if hoping to find something that would delay his departure. 

Richie nodded, willing to admit that he didn't know the first thing about broken ribs, only that they hurt and that it wasn't a pleasant experience, which wasn't much of a surprise. "Deep breathes, coughing, got it." 

Besides, if he forgot anything, all it took was a quick little Google search. But Richie had a feeling that the mention of forgetting would terrify David, and said nothing about it. He _did,_ however, want to mention one thing before David went out the door and to wherever he was going. 

"David, you asked _me,_ remember?" Richie said, unable to keep a smile off his face when the other man instantly winced apologetically and turned to him. David sighed, brushing back his hair, which looked uncombed and probably was. "I'm sorry, Richie. You're right. I'm hovering. Tico always tells me that it's a bad habit." David chuckled nervously.

The apartment looked like it'd been cleaned up, and Richie wouldn't have been surprised if he'd learned that David had been the one to do it. He just seemed like that kind of friend, which was both a good thing and a bad thing, really. Richie followed David out of the kitchen, and into the living room, where Jon was sitting, looking disgruntled, but that was his second most used facial expression so Richie wasn't too concerned. 

What he was concerned about was the fact that _he'd_ put that expression on Jon's face. 

David seemed a little less anxiety ridden than he was twenty seconds ago, but he did hesitate for a split second before he started talking again. "Okay. The doc said you have to limit physical activity and screen time, which means no work for you, my friend. Remember the breathing exercises? Well, Doc says once a day is fine. Also, no smoking." He said firmly. 

Jon mumbled something inaudible. His eyes were closed, and he rubbing the side of his head, almost as if to ward off a headache. 

"Take deep breaths, and just...be nice." David stared at the wall for a second, probably hoping that there was more to say, but there was nothing. He had already explained the medication to Richie in vivid detail, hammering all the little points home and writing his phone number (twice) before sticking it into the fridge with a magnet. David had also printed out the symptoms of a concussion (GOOD symptoms and BAD symptoms, in that order) and treatments guides for just about everything else. The cat had been fed and was dozing on the top of a bookshelf, the apartment was relatively clean, and everything was going to be okay. 

Or, at least, Richie tried to tell himself that. 

David looked at his watch again, this time with mild panic. "Whoops. I gotta go." He said, turning around in a full circle once more. And then he walked foward and pulled Jon into a careful hug. 

Richie would've laughed, if not for how serious things were. David, despite just about everything, was worrying incessantly and was probably regretting having signed up for the field trip. Jon looked a little reluctant, but didn't pull away like Richie thought he would, instead almost sinking into the embrace. After a very long minute, David pulled back and turned away. "I'll take some pictures for both of you." He promised, mouthing 'thank you' at Richie one more time before walking away to the door. 

Jon sunk back into the couch, disgruntled once more. 

"I'll see you both later! Also, I took the luxury in making some food so you didn't have to cook, Rich. It's in the fridge, because all Jon knows got to make is _eggs."_ David grinned and, and with an emphasized shiver as he said the last part that suggested Jon wasn't a good cook, he shut the door. His footsteps could be heard for a minute, and then they were gone. 

Richie cleared his throat, turning away from the door. He was standing there, awkwardly, in the middle of the living room, unsure of what he was supposed to do now. Despite David's liberal instructions, there was nothing telling Richie what he was supposed to do when making sure that all was well and that a trip to the hospital wasn't needed. A part of him wondered if this was David's way of trying to get them to spend time together, because maybe, just maybe, he had noticed the tension between them. 

If so, then David needed to get a life. 

"You enjoyed that hug, didn't you?" Richie said, trying to gauge Jon's temperament with the light prodding. There was no response. He sighed, already feeling a little defeated, and then walked over and glanced at the books, alphabetized and sorted on the bookshelves. 

The books yielded nothing, because Richie wasn't interested in a single one of them. They were all either about historic events, or dramas with no use. Richie eventually just chose a book about the first world war and sat down on the couch, making sure he was giving Jon a decent amount of space as he opened the book.

He couldn't get into the book, though, and ten minutes after that, it was set down on the seat that separated himself and Jon and looked up at the ceiling, searching for something to say, something to do, a word from above telling him what as destined, because Richie surely didn't have a clue. 

"So..." Richie started, and then trailed off. He wasn't sure what he had been about to say, but it hasn't sounded right. Another minute ticked away, and he got the courage again. "Is there anything you would like to talk about?" He asked. 

Silence. 

Richie bit his tongue against a rather spiteful response to that silence, knowing that it wasn't like himself to feel so frustrated but unable to help it. "How's your, uh, head? One time, I thought that I had a concussion, but it was really just a bad headache." 

Time was such a weird thing. Minutes seemed to go by, but according to the clock, it had just been a few seconds. Richie could already tell that this nursing visit wasn't going to go well, but that didn't sit right with him, because David was probably worrying like a mother on his way to the airport and Richie didn't want to let him down by getting into an argument with Jon. 

"S'fine." Jon mumbled. Richie was a little surprised to finally get a response, and was struck into silence, unsure of what was supposed to happen now that his questions had finally gotten an answer. One of them did, at least. The sky was bright and beautiful outside, but it didn't fit the narrative. Richie debated with himself mentally for a minute or two, and then finally came to a conclusion. 

It was a risky move, but it was one worth making. 

"So, you write songs?" Richie said, making small talk and utilizing his information. Jon opened his eyes and then narrowed them, instantly suspicious. There was a weariness in his gaze that had been there ever since Richie had stepped foot into the apartment, but David had been quick to reassure that it was just a product of his irritability, which had increased tenfold in the past few days. Richie decided to elaborate further. "I was in your room, a few days ago, with David." He said. It wasn't much of an assurance, however, to the younger man, who seemed to struggle with his words for a minute, looking away as he articulated himself. 

Jon finally gathered his words. "That is-" He paused, licking his lips and taking a deep breathe that ended in a wince. "-private, though it really shouldn't...surprise me." The venom in Jon's tone wasn't hard to discern, and neither was the subtle, or not so subtle, dig. Richie remembered the photograph, torn in two, jagged and cruel. Jon had obviously done it in the throes of anger, or perhaps in a breakdown similar to the previous one. 

_Breakdown. Psychiatrist. Car._

The words didn't make sense together. Or maybe they did. Richie was never good at puzzles, and had long accepted that as fact. "Jeff seemed torn up about what happened." Richie offered, but he regretted the words as soon as they came out. Jon noticeably stiffened and almost seemed to cringe, which just made everything worse. He grit his teeth together, and the hand was wasn't confined to a cast suddenly tightened into a fist. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to mention him, I just.. " Richie didn't know how to explain himself, how things went so wrong so quickly, which was really the narrative of his life. "I'd be torn up, too, if I said something that angered the person I love enough to make them storm out and be hit by a car." 

_I need to stop talking._

But Jon looked confused now, and he looked at Richie, eyebrows furrowed and suddenly alert. "What are you talking about?" He asked.

They looked at each other, equally confused. 

Richie started playing with his hands. "Well, y'know, you two are..." He broke off, staring as Jon desperately tried to hide his growing smile with the back of his hand. A part of Richie was proud, because he hadn't seen Jon smile in God knows how long, but another part of him was still confused about _why._ "What'd I say?" Richie asked. 

Jon forced away the smile, but there was a brightness to his eyes that hadn't been there before. "We aren't - He's _married,_ Rich." He pushed himself up into a higher sitting position, even though it looked painful to do so. "I like him, but I don't _like_ him." He said in a tone that could be considered amused but, at the same time, not. Richie blinked, and then laughed. "I just thought that..." He broke off, shaking his head regretfully. "I need to stop making assumptions." 

Things seemed a little lighter now. The tension bled away a little bit, a small change that was so noticeable. Richie hadn't seen Jon look this happy since those fragments of memories, time that had long taken its place in the past. It felt nice. Richie felt a stirring of emotions in his chest, nameless feeling a that felt achingly familiar, and then Jon shut down again, his face once more becoming that horrible blank mask. It caused an unexpected ache in Richie's heart, a want for more but knowing that he wouldn't see that smile again. 


	16. Fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is my longest chapter in a story ever.

The sky began to dim.

Richie's mother had called, questioning about whether or not the box that had all of Richie's father's collection of old VHS tapes was in the attic or the basement. The thought of his mother going into either of those places terrified Richie to no end, mainly because she was older and her balance wasn't what it used to be, and it probably wasn't safe for her to be climbing ladders or rickety staircases. "I'll go over there soon and get them for you." Richie promised her, pacing the kitchen and praying that his mother's stubbornness had toned down a notch or two. "It'll give us an excuse to spend time together." He added, like the sugar on top, hoping that it would work. It was probably irrational to think about anything happening, just a fear of being alone in the world coming into play once more, but the chances weren't worth it. Richie wanted to see his mother anyways, it was just a matter of the drive and his job, since he'd probably have to go on a weekend. Asking for time off when you'd just started a job wasn't exactly a good idea, as Richie had been told back when he was a teenager and first starting out as a cashier. 

"That sounds nice. What day do you think? I need some time to prepare." His mother asked, her voice immediately going up an octave in excitement. Richie thought about it, debating with himself mentally about when would be best. "Next Saturday?" He suggested. They could spend that day and beginning of Sunday together, and Richie could drive back midday. 

The thought of going back was a good one. Richie missed his mother terribly, and she missed him, too, it was clear. There were cousins and aunts and uncles, sure, but they were the only immediate family that either of them had left. 

Mrs. Sambora hummed. "I look forward to it, dear." She said, a small tremble becoming noticeable in her voice. Richie recognized the first sign of her tears, but none came. Instead, she cleared her throat and seemed to gather herself. "Well, I'm having the ladies over for some light reading." 

Richie perked up at the words. "What ladies?" He asked, glad to hear that his mother had friends, at least. 

"Oh, just a few of the women from Church. They are quite lovely. You should meet them, sometime. Though, I expect that you'd recognise them." Mrs. Sambora said, a sharp tone of amusement in her voice. It was a welcome change from the almost wistful tone she'd been using earlier. 

Nodding, Richie briefly glanced at the clock, taking note of the time. "I wish the weekend would come sooner." He said softly, like a child confessing a nightmare he'd awoken from. "I miss you, mom." 

Oh, how time had gone by. Richie could remember a childhood of fun and happiness and love, but now, life had become so unbearably difficult. 

Mrs. Sambora sighed. "I miss you too, honey." 

The call continued on for a few more minutes, with the conversation shifting to his new job, to her new friends, and onward as the tone became much more light. Richie was careful not to reveal to his mother any of the recent happenings, instead focusing on other things, happier things that, for a moment or two, seemed to outweigh the bad.

And then the call ended. 

Richie wished it could've lasted forever, but then he remembered something his father had once said about how wishing had never gotten anything done and squashed those feelings down. There were other things to do, on account of David being oddly persuasive and Richie not having a strong backbone. 

When he'd left to answer the call, Richie had left Jon watching some idle show on the television. Now, the television was off, and Jon was sleeping. Or doing an imitation of it. His hair was mussed, head tilted to the side, away from Richie. The sight as widely endearing. It was barely dark yet, but Richie supposed he'd want to sleep, too. So it was with great regret that he crept foward and lightly tapped Jon's left shoulder, hoping to wake him up, if only for a minute or two. 

Jon startled awake, body twisting, his good hand flailing and very narrowly missing Richie's face, if not for some very quick reflexes. 

Jumping back at the last minute to avoid getting clocked, Richie fell back onto his haunches while Jon pressed his hand against his chest and winced, his breathing short and choppy to minimize his movement. It was almost comical how it all happened in such a short timeframe, but something told Richie that if he laughed, then Jon would try to hit him again, this time on purposes, no matter how much pain he was in.

"Are you okay?" Richie asked, standing up but keeping a distance away from the couch, weary of any sudden movements, no matter how accidental it had been. Jon wheezed painfully, shaking his head but staying as still as a statue otherwise, his eyes clenched shut. Richie cursed, then decided that of all the times for such a thing to happen, it was best for it to have happened at that moment. 

Richie walked away quickly, going for the medication on the table. It had very clear instructions, written on both the label and David's instructions, despite his rather scratchy handwriting that suggested he'd wrote it in a hurry. Truth be told, Richie had no idea what the meds were actually _for._ He knew that one of them was for pain, but the other was a mystery to behold. 

As per the instructions, Richie got the appropriate dosage, and then double checked it, just to make sure. He nodded, seeing that he had read it write, and then walked back into the living room. Jon took the medication after a minute, and then, after about ten minutes, got back into his sleeping position. 

Unsure of what to do now, Richie sat back down after grabbing his phone. It was a little more awkward now, which was a feat in itself, really. 

"Thanks." Jon mumbled, his voice a mere whisper in the room. Richie almost didn't hear him and was quite frankly a little surprised at the thanks, but was grateful for it, nonetheless. He didn't say anything back because Jon seemed to fall back asleep a minute later, allowing Richie to spend a good hour scrolling the internet because there was nothing else to do. 

The apartment felt empty, despite there being three living, breathing creatures in it. Richie wondered if it was alone this was all the time- cold, bare, lonely. 

The emptiness of the apartment reminded him of Cher, and Richie didn't know why, because he hadn't thought about her in days, a record, really. Richie was more than a little pleased when he realized that the thought of his ex girlfriend brought not heartache, but anger. 

Their relationship had been great, sometimes, but tumultuous otherwise. Cher was unwilling to accept her faults, and Richie was tired of being the bearer of each blame. He hadn't been the best boyfriend, but she wasn't exactly a patron saint. 

Maybe it was just their personalities. 

Certain people, no matter how hard they tried, wouldn't and couldn't get along. Richie could remember when they first met, remember how utterly smitten he had been. Cher had played hard to get, and it had been an enticing chase, one that they had both enjoyed. She had been like a creature in the night, and Richie had been drawn to her.

Richie rubbed his eyes, tired, both mentally and physically. 

Yawning, Richie glanced at Jon, and decided to wing it. He shut off his phone, set it on the table, and got comfortable on the couch. There wasn't anything important to do, anyways, and so Richie closed his eyes. 

_-_

_Cold, bitter wind._

_Legs dangling off the roof._

_Richie stiffened, scared by the sudden drop. When he was younger, such heights didn't scare him, but now, they terrified him with the endless possibilities, the chances of dropping and ending up splattered all over the sidewalk below. "Where am I?" He said, a thought that wasn't meant to be heard. The wind whipped at his hair, stung his face, like thin needles._

_There was somebody beside him, and Richie forced himself to tear his eyes away from the fatal drop, as if doing so would increase his chances of slipping and falling down, down, down, to the ground. Cars honked, mere lights in the space that separated them._

_It was Jon, which wasn't surprising, really. Not anymore, in these dreams that hadn't happened in more than a few days. Richie had almost forgotten about them._

_"You're dreaming." Jon said, amused. He seemed unconcerned with the height, just swinging his legs like a child on a swing. There was a brightness to his eyes, but along with that was an eerie feeling like something was distinctly wrong._

_Richie swallowed thickly, shutting his eyes and wondering what would happen if he just...let go. This was a dream, and so he wouldn't die, but it felt like he was a character in a movie, following a script. If he let go, then the shot would be ruined, and they'd all have to start over again._

_Gathering his frayed courage, Richie took a deep breathe. "Why am I having these dreams?" He asked, voice merely a weak whisper. It was a question that seemed so obvious, an answer dancing just beyond reach. "Because your life is so embroiled around me that I appear even when you're asleep, why else?" Jon responded._

_It wasn't what Richie had been expecting, but he accepted it anyways._

_Cars honked below them. It amazed Richie that his dreams contained so much detail, and it was with that thought that he noticed the golden band on Jon's ring finger, shining in the faint moonlight. Richie stared at it, and his gaze was noticed. Jon smiled and held up his hand, twisting it every which way as he looked at it, like he'd never seen it before._

_"You like it?" Jon said with a mischievous little smile, and Richie suddenly realized that Jon looked exactly as he did in the picture had been discovered, not quite torn apart by the world just yet. Janie hadn't died, and he wasn't quite so angry at humanity yet._

_Unsure of what to say, Richie shrugged._

_Why was he dreaming about this? Surely, there must be a purpose to these roundabout dreams. But there was no reason in sight. Richie wrapped his arms around himself, his bare arms prickled with goosebumps. "I never meant to hurt you." He said, avoiding the piercing blue gaze that was directed at him. "I don't remember it, not really, but I never meant for this to happen."_

_The wind picked up._

_Jon was smiling. "And so you say." He said._

_A loud thump could be heard, and Richie whirled around, hands slamming down to secure his spot on the roof as he searched for the origin of the noise. The door that lead to the roof had slammed open, and within the doorway was a blindingly bright light. He_

_In an instant, Jon was standing and pulling Richie up with a strength that seemed unnatural to him. Richie didn't fight it, despite a mumble at the back of his head saying that something was wrong, and Jon pulled him toward the door, their footsteps echoing. "Where are we going?" Richie asked._

_In the the threshold of the door, painted by the golden white light, it was impossible to see past into the room beyond. Jon stilled, but his hand remained tight on Richie's arm, face open and almost desperate, frowning deeply._

_There was something about the whole situation that seemed different, but it was impossible to tell if it was in a good way or bad way._

_"You need to remember." Jon urged. His hands raised so that they were clasping Richie's shoulders, shaking him slightly. "We need to move past it. Do you understand me? Remember why I'm so angry. It isn't so difficult."_

_Richie heard growls coming from the light, within the room. Twisting toward where the sound had come from, he could see large, distinct shapes._

_Fear seized his heart._

_Jon forced Richie to look back at him, blue meeting brown, panicked and eerily calm._

_"It's there, Rich. You can remember it, but you have to try. Otherwise, what's the point?" Jon smiled ruefully, and he reached up, very lightly pressing his lips against Richie's cheek._

_It brought an unexpected flood of emotions, longing and want, fear, heartache. Richie could remember little snippets of a life before, of happiness, and simplicity._

_Richie wanted that life back._

_But then Jon shoved him away, and Richie stumbled back, startled. It was a sudden, shocking change, but just for a moment, they shared a glance. "Wander gently." Jon urged, and Richie opened his mouth, about to ask what he meant, but then Jon jumped into the light and the door slammed shut and-_

_It all faded away._

_-_

Richie awoke, his heart beating so fast that it was about to leap out from his chest. 

He reached out without realizing it. The room was dark, night having fully fallen outside, and Jon was absent from his spot. Frank was lazing about on the arm of the couch, his tail flicking up and down, bright green eyes like lasers. 

"Hi." Richie whispered, stretching across and stroking the cat's back gently. "Where's Jon, hmm?" 

The cat meowed. 

There was no use talking to an animal with a brain the size of a walnut, or possibly smaller, and so Richie stood, cracking his back and neck. He was too tall to comfortably sleep on a couch, and really needed to stop doing it. 

He briefly checked the bedroom and the extra room, which looked like there had been a weak attempt to convert it into an office that had been stopped halfway, and then the bathroom, just in case, before making his way back into the kitchen. Jon was sitting at the small table that was shoved into a corner, armed with a bottle of glue, the photograph sitting in front of him. 

Jon didn't look up when Richie entered. His eyes remained firmly on his work, where his shaking hands were carefully trying to piece it all back together. 

"I don't think it's good for you to be sitting like that." Richie said, referring to the hunched posture that Jon had adapted. He stayed a careful distance away, but still in sight. Last thing he needed was to nearly get hit again. Jon hunched further, slowly dragging the tip of the glue against the middle of the photgraph, as if to spite Richie. 

The ring was on the table. It sent a shiver up Richie's spine, remembering that dream. That stupid, confusing dream that seemed to have had no use except to further twist the situation up like a knot that couldn't be undone. "Like you care." Jon said, voice sharp and defensive. Richie opened his mouth, open to point out that he wouldn't be here if he didn't care, but Jon shook his head, rubbing his eyes tiredly. 

"I'm sorry." Jon said, shivering slightly as he breathed. It looked painful, and probably was. Richie wondered when he'd woken up, if he had feigned sleep and gotten up as soon as he was sure that Richie was off in dreamland, but it didn't matter, not really. "I'm sorry, it's my fault." 

_Your fault for what?_

Richie sat down on the other chair. "What are you talking about?" He asked, anxiety pooling within his stomach. "You're being cryptic." 

The photograph was set down. Glue was still drying in the middle, right where the faces were. If Richie was a more poetic person, he would've been able to tell what it signified, but for him, it only showed a broken desperation. "Everything." Jon said, his voice breaking. "You leaving, their disappointment, Janie...." He trailed off. 

"How are any of those things your fault? Who are 'they'?" Richie began to feel panicked. He leaned over, arms crossed and resting against the table. The next door neighbor was yelling, and Richie could make out faint words.

_How could you do that don't you ever **think**_

The photograph. Happiness, but was there, really? In just a few days, weeks, months, years, one of them would be dead and the other would begin a life of perpetual sorrow and anger. It was crazy, how fast things could change. 

It was also very cruel. 

"I was never good enough." Jon said, voice blunt and harsh. "Of course, Janie took a more dramatic way out." He used his left arm to push himself into a standing position with a sharp gasp. Richie reached out, just in case, but Jon was already walking away, very slowly and gingerly. 

Richie knew that arguing wouldn't do any good, so he just followed. 

They ended up in Jon's bedroom, with Richie sitting on the bed and Jon riffling through his closet. He reappeared with an old, tattered box, sitting down heavily on the bed a ways away from Richie and hand before handing him the box. 

Whatever was inside the box, it was heavy. Richie held the box carefully in his hands, like it was a previous jewel that needed to be protected at all costs. Jon lay down on the bed and shut his eyes, hands folded on his chest, face scrunched up like he was in pain. 

"Jon, maybe you should try and rest. This can..." Richie trailed off, because could it wait? Really? Jon sighed. "Just open the box." 

And he did.


	17. Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot of italics in this chapter.

Photographs. 

Faces, men and women, smiling and frowning, alone and together. It was startling, at first, to see them. Richie stared down at the people, permanently captured in frozen eternity, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. He'd almost expected to see a severed head in the box or something, but no, just pictures of people that were both familiar and unfamiliar. The first photograph was old, with a torn edge and watermarks, but the smiles hadn't faded. 

It showed Richie and Jon, young and carefree, happy and in love. The tone of the picture was one without a single care in the whole goddamn world, like nothing could step them even if they tried. Richie was sitting on the couch, his guitar propped in his lap, and Jon was crouched beside him, arm tossed over Richie's shoulders, matching smiles and enough hairspray divided between the two of them to punch a hole in the ozone layer. 

Richie laughed softly, turning the picture over. 

Scrawled on the back of the photo was- _Richie and I, August 21st._

They had, once upon a time, been happy. There hadn't been this whole confusing maze of memories that weren't there and dreams that didn't make any sense, just them, together. The second photograph was a little newer, but the happiness was still there, the sun not having yet disappeared, torn asunder. 

This picture showed them in a park, and with a startling jolt, Richie realized that it was _the_ park, the same park that had been featured in the dreams and distant memories that didn't fully reveal themselves through the haze. They were half-hugging in the middle of a set of trees, the thick leaves shielding them from the sun. Richie presumed that one of their parents had taken the photo, somebody close to them, due to the intimate nature of the pose. 

_Richie and I, March 15th._

Picture after picture, Richie peered at each and every one, inspected the little creases and ran his thumb over the people that were frozen in time. Most of the pictures featured just them together, playing around, strumming guitar and singing, laying in bed. But a few showed other people. 

Richie recognized his mother, father, a few of his cousins. There was an older man and woman that had facial similarities with Jon, so he supposed that they were Jon's parents, and then there were two younger boys who also looked similar that must've been his younger brothers. The writing on the back, patient and always there, confirmed his suspicions. 

_Richie, Mom, Dad, Matthew and Anthony, December 16th._

_Richie, Mr. Sambora and Mrs. Sambora, October 12th._

_Mr. Sambora and Mrs. Sambora, and I, January 20th._

_Dad and Mom, July 18th._

There must've been hundreds. Richie went through them all, caught up in times that had long gone by. It was crazy, to see that Jon had documented so many years with such diligence. It seemed like he'd been determined in the mission that he'd presumably appointed upon himself. 

The photos were set beside Richie in an unsteady stack that slowly went up and up and up, until it became a real possibility that they were about to fall and he set them down onto the floor. 

Glancing behind his shoulder, Richie could see that Jon was dead to the world. 

Figuratively. 

Not exactly sure why, he gently set his hand down on Jon's chest to feel the steady beat of the other man's heart against his palm. 

It was reassuring, and it hurt, for some reason. Richie couldn't help but wonder why Jon had given him the box, only to just fall asleep. It was confusing, but hardly the weirdest part of the journey. 

Standing up, Richie covered Jon with the blanket, trying carefully not to awaken him but also taking on the role he'd been tasked with. Jon stirred slightly, but didn't open his eyes. 

Stuck in the moment, Richie's eyes flit over Jon's face, over the bruise on his cheekbone and the miniscule cut near his hairline. Even in sleep, Jon looked like he'd been through hell and come out spitting and biting. It was a far cry from the man in the photographs, the one who hadn't been touched by the world yet. 

Richie sat back down, and returned to his previous endeavor. 

Jon was obviously into photographing, judging by the sheer amount that had been amassed over the years. There were pictures without any people, even. Large cliffs and ocean waves in some, while old buildings and bright blue skies stood out in others. 

Eventually, Richie disappeared. 

And so did his parents. 

They were gone, as suddenly as they appeared, and it was almost startling to see how quick they were gone. One minute, they were in every single photo, but now, they were gone. Richie briefly skimmed through the photographs, but couldn't see himself nor his parents in any, so he assumed that they had effectively disappeared from Jon's life. 

By the time the next photograph was taken, years had gone by. In the next set of photos, Jon's hair was shorter and was now a shade of dirty blonde, the brightness gone from his eyes and his smile a little less genuine, but things hadn't gone so sideways yet. 

He was alone in these photographs, at least in the first few, but it appeared like he had traveled the world for a little while. The pictures showed landmarks like Stonehenge and Giza, but soon, another person began to appear in the pictures. 

Janie. 

They'd presumably met during that travel period. One photo, she wasn't there, but in the next, Jon was hugging her in front of a waterfall and they looked so happy, a fierce change from the obviously fake smile that he'd been putting on for the last ten pictures or so. 

The sight made Richie feel unexpectedly jealous, and goddamn it, he shouldn't feel jealousy over a man that he walked out on over fifteen years ago and a woman who had commit suicide just a year ago but he did. 

For awhile, the photos were happy. 

And then there was a long period of darkness. 

Pictures from afar. Janie writing idly in a chair with a cigarette dangling from her lips, Janie sitting at the table while eating breakfast, Janie laying in bed while reading. All of them screamed melancholy, and none of them featured a smile. 

Richie knew facial expressions pretty well, and could tell that she wasn't happy. 

Why? 

Jon could've been the reason. It was clear that he wasn't exactly a pleasant person to be around, but when had he become so mean? Was it after Richie had left, or after Janie's suicide? 

But then there was a photo of their wedding. Multiple, in fact, but only one stood out. Janie looked stunning in her wedding dress, smiling so bright that she might as well have been the sun. It was a gorgeous dress, sleeveless and simple, but it fit her perfectly. Jon looked handsome in a black suit, looking excited and nervous all at once. They were at the altar, exchanging vows, presumably, not knowing the loss that would come sooner rather than later, just enjoying this one moment. 

_Janie's and I's wedding,_ _February 16th._

Jon's family had been there. There were some people that Richie presumed were other family members on Jon's side or Janie's family, unrecognizable people with faces that held no meaning. 

In those few photographs, cutting cake and getting married, everything was okay.

One picture showed Jon's birthday party, with Janie leaning against him and Jon holding a black and white kitten. 

_My birth_ _day party, best one yet, I got a cat. His name is Frank. March 2nd._

And then- 

_Janie after work, September 2nd_

_The sun setting, March 5th_

_Janie and I in the Rocky Mountains, December 15th_

_The apartment building, April 10th_

Richie was confused as to why Jon would take a picture of the rickety old apartment building, with broken windows and a door with no lock. 

It was obviously a different building, older, and falling apart at the seams. Richie figured that after Janie's suicide, Jon moved because of the memories. 

He would've, too. 

The photos dwindled. The mood became depressing and dark, pictures of Janie and, sometimes, Jon, looking like the world has been torn out from underneath their feet. Random pictures of the sunset and the sun rising, until eventually they stopped altogether. 

The only pictures remaining were recent, looking as if they'd been taken in the last few weeks or so. 

_Tico, David and I at David's birthday party, February 7th_

_Alec and I at David's birthday party, February 7th_

_Nikki and Tommy at David's birthday party, February 7th_

_Sebastian and Snake at park, February 10th_

_Frank on couch, February 11th_

The photos were scattered all over the floor now, and no more remained in the box. Jon was still asleep, and Richie had a headache and his back ached because he'd been hunched over as he inspected each and every photograph. An hour had gone by, but it felt like an eternity. 

At the bottom of the box was a silver necklace that looked as if it'd been bought at a fair to a dollar, a flower that had long dried up and died, and a letter. 

Richie hesitated with the letter. But Jon had given up the box, and he must've known this letter was in there, so why not? 

The thin paper was torn and creased permanently from how it'd been folded. But the writing was legible, and that was all that mattered. 

_Dear Jon_

_I think we both know what this letter is about. It's simple enough, really. Maybe as soon as you picked this letter up, you dropped it and ran off to where you know I'll be, but there's no use, and truth be told, I hope you stayed._

_You're broken. Torn apart by yourself and others. You cannot give me what I want, but that's nobody's fault. I am depressed, and the world wasn't made for people like me. That's nobody's fault, either._

_Our jagged pieces fit together._

_When I first met you, the world seemed a little less dark. But you're not the man I want nor need. I'm not the woman for you, to be honest, but we worked, if only for a little while._

_I'm going to be blunt here. I'm a replacement for that man who left you and you're a replacement for the love I cannot show myself. We are both cruel people. I turn outward, you turn inward, and then we both explode. Does that make sense?_

_You showed me love, and thank you for that. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for that gift._

_But it couldn't save me. Nobody can nor could. You know that and I know that._

_I don't love you. I'm sorry, but I truly don't. I can't learn to love you._

_It hurts to write this, and it must hurt to read this, but I do not love you and there's nothing you could ever say that would've fixed that._

_I am going to go to my paradise, the one you couldn't provide. And maybe you can find your paradise, or maybe not._

_I hope so, Jon. But I cannot help you._

_Find it within yourself to live the rest of your life, however that may turn out._

_Thank you again,_

_Janie_


	18. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The stories 'Fly Like The Wind' and 'A Big, Happy Family' have been deleted because I don't think those were my best works. I will be rewriting the chapters and posting them back up in a few weeks.

"Sad, isn't it?" Jon said. 

Richie startled, nearly jumping out of his skin as he whirled around and came face to face with Jon, who regarded him with no emotion in his bright blue eyes. "What?" Richie said, feeling like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar. It was like he'd been in a different reality and was now being jolted back into the world, with Jon staring at him in a way that seemed to make the whole situation worse.

Jon glanced briefly down at the letter for emphasis. 

"Oh, right." Richie wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. There was really nothing that could truly be said that could hold any significant meaning, because nothing could change what had happened. The letter had been written, and then Janie had killed herself because of a monster within her head. 

She was dead, and this was her last stand. 

A letter, trapped at the bottom of a shoebox, creased and torn. 

Jon held out his good hand expectantly, and Richie handed him the letter without a minute's thought. It was hard to tell what the emotions that he was feeling were, but Richie mainly felt shocked. Suicide was a foreign being to him, a creature that was locked up in the dark. 

Somehow, it felt different than death itself. 

Richie struggled with his words. Normally, they came easy, but now they were lodged in his throat, unable to be forced out. Jon was sitting up now, looking at the letter but not reading it, his eyes frozen on a specific part of the letter like if he looked away, the world would finish cracking and would finally break into a million pieces. 

"It couldn't be helped." Richie finally forced out. 

That didn't sound right by itself. Too cold, uncaring. It wasn't right to leave it just at that, those four words, alone, lingering in the air like an invisible plague. "You couldn't have helped her. Don't blame yourself for that." Richie said. 

With a painful wince, Jon propped himself up on the headboard. He hadn't looked up, still stuck on those words, a sentence that was stuck in time. "I don't blame myself for..." Jon's voice was hoarse, and he broke off to clear his throat. "I'm sorry." 

Why was this so difficult? 

Jon carefully folded the letter, his hands gentle as he set it down on the nightstand, right in the place of the missing photograph. 

It felt oddly symbolic. 

"Why did you give me those pictures? The letter?" Richie, with those words, leaned over the side of the bed and set the box down onto the floor, taking the brief moment to gather himself. By the time he sat back up, everything felt a little bit clearer. Not by much, but just a little. 

There were multiple reasons why it all he'd happened. Maybe Jon was hoping that the photographs would jog Richie's memory so that he didn't have to recount everything, or maybe he felt the need to share the heartache, the burden of knowledge. 

Memories were a tough thing. 

Richie could feel them, laying at rest near the back of his mind, hiding in the darkest corners, but reaching them was an impossible mission that kept failing, trying to catch them, but he kept losing them before he even found them. 

Jon didn't answer. Not in the way that Richie needed him to answer, anyways. He just closed his eyes, tilted his head up, and for a long moment, fell into a contemplative silence. And then he opened his mouth, and spoke. 

"I wish we could go back in time." He said. 

Richie almost laughed, barely retraining himself in time to bite back the startled chuckle. Yes, that would fix all problems wouldn't it? They could avoid the argument, or just plain move past it. Richie would choose not to leave and, well, that's the end of it all. 

They could just be them again. 

Reaching out and chancing fate, Richie rest his hand on Jon's knew in an unfamiliar gesture of comfort. Muscles tensed beneath his hand, a millennia of instinct trapped within his mind, but then Jon relaxed, and he laughed softly. "We're fucking doomed." He said, and for some reason, that made all the sense in the world. 

There was an emotion in his voice that hasn't been there previously, but Richie didn't get too excited. Concussions could do weird things to people, and the possibility that Jon's was making him more emotional than usual wasn't out of the realm of possibilities. 

"Tell me what we were fighting about. Whatever it was, it must've been big for us to be so angry about it. For _me_ to be so angry about it." Richie urged. He hoped that the physical contact would sway the other man, if only slightly, with the plea. 

He needed to know. If they had any sense of _something,_ then Richie needed to know. And even if there was no chance of a friendship to spawn out of this, then the missing pieces needed to be put back together, anyways. 

What had happened, and why? Was it something so small that it turned into something so big? Or was it just years of frustration pent up, exploding into bright sparks of anger and frustration? 

Jon took a deep breathe, as if preparing himself for the inevitable. He looked terrified, and maybe for a good reason. "It was a million things that just....turned into one, I guess." He eventually said. It was a start, at least.

Richie prepped himself for the long haul. 

"We were both inexperienced and young. We weren't used to having to solve our problems together, in a civil way. For a long while, we were happy, but those issues that weren't talked about, well..." Jon sighed, shaking his head regretfully. He looked tired and hurt and ready to fall apart at the slightest moment, and maybe that was true. 

Struck by a sudden urge, Richie bent over the side of the bed and retrieved the first photo. 

The striking differences between the _then_ and _now_ was almost too much at that moment. 

"How was I acting...before I left?" Richie asked. The question was useless and there was no need to really ask, but it felt important, and that was all that mattered. Jon shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled at his his injuries. "You were angry, but sort of subdued." He looked at the picture, but said nothing about it. 

There was no need. 

The second moment of history that had long disappeared. Smiles stretched wind and happiness clear and plain. There was no sign of what was to come, just the moment, frozen with love. 

Richie bit his tongue for a moment, debating with himself, going back and forth like a ping pong ball. 

"What'd Beck say?" 

The sudden change of conversation was enough to make them both tense. Jon grimaced, "Don't ask me that." He said, voice soft in the small room. Richie almost didn't push it, just by the resistance shown, but had a feeling that it wouldn't help. 

They wouldn't get anywhere if they just gave up after the first try. 

"Jon. You know just about everything you could know about me, even the shit that I don't want you to know." Richie said. He hated having to guilt trip an answer out of Jon, but he had a feeling that there was no other way. "So just tell me. I won't tell anybody else." 

Or would he? If Jeff Beck had said something way out-of-line, then Richie had no qualms about reporting him.

"It was nothing." Jon said, voice firm now. He looked out the window, at the blinding sun that had just managed to crawl its way up from the horizon. "I need to go feed the cat." 

He was avoiding the question, which meant that something deeper than originally thought had been said. Jon went to get up, but Richie stopped him. 

Jon glared, but didn't say a word. 

"You're not getting up until you tell me." Richie said, with as much confidence and firmness as he could muster. Such things usually came naturally to him, but the world seemed to be going backward and nothing seemed to make sense, not anymore. "Goddamnit, what are you not telling me?"

And then as suddenly as the anger had appeared, it disappeared. 

The world suddenly seemed very dark. 

"Can I- _please,_ have some painkillers?" Jon asked, avoiding eye contact like it'd kill him. The sudden change of tone and conversation was odd, but Richie did as asked, walking out into the dining room, which gave him a few minutes to think. 

Richie didn't like being left out into the dark, not knowing what was going on behind the scenes, but here he was, without the memories and without the information. 

He got the pills, feeling a bit like a dutiful servant, but supposed that it was the exact thing he'd signed up for. 

Jon took the pills without a word, lips pursed and thin as if to prevent himself for saying something that would be regretted, eyes shadowed and face pale, giving him an ill look. 

"How are you feeling?" Richie asked, remembering _why_ he was even in this apartment in the first place. 

"My ribs hurt like a bitch." Jon said through gritted teeth. He ran his hand through his already messy hair, seeming to contemplate the situation silently, and with that permanent sorrow that seemed to stick around like an irritating fly. "It wasn't anything bad. It just struck a nerve." 

It took Richie a moment to realize that they were talking about whatever Beck had said again, and he frowned, his mind racing through answers and possibilities. His definition of _bad_ seemed to be far different from Jon's definition, but with that being said, Jon's main two trigger points seemed to be Janie and Richie himself, but did Beck even know about that? 

Would Jon have told him about it? 

Out of the corner of his eye, Richie could see a shadow in the threshold of the door. He whirled around, only to come face-to-face with Tico, who looked very confused, glancing between himself and Jon, who also seemed bemused by the sudden appearance of David's roommate. 

"Hi." Tico said. 

Richie looked at him, eyebrows furrowed. "How did you get in?" He asked, initially worried that he'd left the door unlocked. But Tico just smiled and held up his hand, where his keychain was looped around one of his fingers. "I have keys." Tico said simply, looking unnecessarily proud of himself. 

"Dave gave them to me." Tico continued, pocketing the keys and swooping down to pick up the cat, who was circling his feet like a furry vulture. "You guys weren't answering his calls, and he pitched a fit. I had to come over here, anyways, so no harm, no foul." He shrugged. 

But the attempted nonchalance was feigned. 

Tico looked as if the expected a bloodbath. He glanced at Jon, who just seemed rather embarrassed by the whole ordeal, and then back at Richie, who shuffled awkwardly. 

"You can go ahead, Rich." Tico said, patting his shoulder comfortingly after he set the cat back down on the floor. "I'm gonna stay with Jon for awhile." 

Richie was both relieved and wanting to say _no._ He had questions, but they could wait. One look at Jon just confirmed that. "Okay." Richie said. He felt awkward, and now Tico looked concerned, and there was no use sticking around, anyways. 

And so he left. 

\--

Hours went by. 

Richie still had that photo, his piece of the puzzle, and for some reason, he couldn't pull away from it. For awhile, he'd say there, staring at a picture that didn't provide anymore clues than it did the first time around, memorizing the faces and the positions and the happiness that has long dissipated. 

The same thing was happening over and over again, an endless stream of questions that never got any answers. 

Hunger was beginning to stab at his insides, and so Richie made himself some cereal and sat down with his phone, his leg jiggling due to his nerves. 

"Stupid, stupid, stupid..." Richie muttered to himself, thinking back to how they'd danced around the question. He should've and could've asked sooner, but Jon didn't answer all the same. 

_WHY?_

Was Jon hiding something from him, just for the fun of it? Or did he not remember, either, but was unwilling to admit it for some reason it another? 

With the picture on the table in front of him, taunting Richie with the pure sight of itself, he aimlessly scrolled through the internet, hoping for something that could take his mind from all his troubles. 

But nothing could. 

Richie read countless news articles, but the worry, the questions, the situation never left. 

He shouldn't have expected for it to have happened. 

Would Jeff Beck be able to help? Richie thought for a moment about that, if he could go to the doctor and ask about what he knew, what has happened, but ultimately discarded the idea.

Patient - Doctor confidentiality would probably get in the way. 

And Richie figured that they didn't even know each other all that well. 

Jeff Beck probably wouldn't even consider it. 

But it was an idea, at least, and Richie filed it away in his mind for later on, when desperation began to morph into something more urgent. 

The phone rang. 

Richie jolted, startled from his thoughts. He lowered his spoon back into the bowl and stared at the screen, momentarily confused and then, suddenly, ferociously, angry, because he recognized the number, even if his phone didn't. 

For a moment, he didn't want to answer it. 

Why would he? 

After all this time, after nearly a month, _now,_ of all times, Cher decided to call. Richie could find a strange sort of humor in the situation, despite his anger. 

The phone continued to ring. 

And Richie didn't answer. If he did, then the balance would fall apart, this careful control of order, balancing on a precarious slope. Richie didn't answer because he knew, no matter how much talking might help, then he would explode. 

The call ended. 

Richie set the phone down, and it was about them that he noticed how bad his hands were shaking.

"Fuck her." Richie muttered, the words thick and heavy. They didn't help, not really, but the anger dissipated, if only slightly. "Fuck it all." 

\-- 

He took a shower, long and hot, until the water ran cold, like needles that dropped at light speed. 

Richie wasn't tired, not really. But he had work the next day, and as he set the alarm, the events of the day began to weigh on him. The bed was a temporary safe spot, and it provides a small amount of comfort in a world where such things never came. 

It wasn't even completely dark yet. The sky was a dark, depressing shade of blue, halfway to black. Richie thought it looked oddly beautiful, but didn't dwell on it much longer than a brief glance as he pulled the blanket up to his cheat and tried to get comfortable. 

"I better not have any goddamn dreams tonight." Richie said, unsure of whom exactly he was talking to, as the words hung empty in the air. 

Just one night without dreams. That was all Richie was asking for.

\--

_He was in the apartment._

_Not in the apartment that he'd been living in, no, that would've been too easy. This apartment was dark and smelt of smoke and whisky, a rather nauseated smell that made Richie think back to the days of youth spent in seedy bars. It was dimly lit, with only a lamp to light the way of this darkened place._

_To Richie's right, there was a doorway, but it was as black as night and endlessly foreboding, the darkness serving as a warning not to enter._

_It took Richie a moment for his eyes to adjust properly to the darkness, and another minute for him to realize what was going on. It wasn't a surprise to see Jon- in fact, in was expected nowadays, seeing how much of Richie's life that Jon seemed to take up. But seeing him sent a sharp spike through Richie's heart, a sudden pain that wasn't expected._

_"I'm in your...other apartment." Richie said, slowly at first, and then his voice gained more confidence. "Why? What am I doing here?" He asked, the slightest hint of panic making itself known in his voice. It was unfamiliar and strange, being in an apartment that he'd only ever seen in photos, and then only briefly._

_In front of him, Jon looked up, blue eyes calm and placid, like a lake in the summertime. He was curled up in a chair, a cigarette clenched between his teeth, flipping through a scrapbook with an almost irritating nonchalance. "What do you think?" He said, voice tinted with a faint amusement and mingled distaste, as if at the same time that he was amused by the spectacle, he was angry about it, disgusted with the display._

_Richie shrugged weakly._

_It was cold in the apartment, no, freezing. Richie shivered and wrapped his arms around himself to ward off the chill, looking around the apartment as he did so. It was somehow both bare and cluttered at once, a dark place that seemed full of whispers and dark edges._

_He stepped foward carefully, not quite sure what he was expecting, but unsure of what was going on, and taking that seriously. Dreams were tricky things, but, as Richie reminded himself, that's just what it was- a dream._

_The living room was a mess of books, clothing and dirty dishes. Richie looked down at the papers crowded on the table, but the words were blurred and couldn't be deciphered. It was the exact scene that has been in the photographs, and yet, it was shocking all the same._

_"That doesn't answer my question." Richie said._

_Then again, nothing ever did. It was just the same roundabout, back and forth and back and forth until, one day it all just fell away._

_Richie blinked, wondering where those thoughts had come from. It was awfully depressing, wherever they were._

_"Who's fault is that?" Jon said, flipping the page and staring at a new set of photographs that'd been carefully glued to the paper. Richie felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up, and was immediately on edge, because none of this felt right._

_And yeah, it was a dream, it wasn't supposed to feel right, but there was something off about the whole thing._

_Jon looked like he should've, sounded like he should've, but there was something distinctly off. His movements were disjointed and awkward, like he was a puppet, moving rather jerkily, as if controlled by a string that was hidden, unseen._

_But that could be explained, couldn't it?_

_After all, Jon was just a character in this dream, a figment. He was merely some sort of mental representation, not the real deal. The actual Jon was probably in his apartment, sleeping or maybe thinking of the whole situation himself._

_This was all fake. And it was stupid to get all worked up over something that wasn't a reality, however distant it might've been._

_And so Richie stepped foward, forcing himself to move with every little inch, and sat down on the couch. It was an old couch, somehow both soft and uncomfortable at the same time, and Richie winced at the feeling of springs poking into his skin. Jon smiled, a faint little ghost of what once was, and examined the page he was on once more._

_"Don't look so worried." Jon said, voice tinted by the hanging amusement. "I'm not real, remember? That's what you thought, anyways. And if you want to be right, well...." He trailed off with a careless shrug._

_Somehow, those words made it all worse. Richie forced himself to breathe normally, his panic resuming, suddenly aware of how small the apartment was. This was all a dream, and at any moment, he could just pinch himself, and awaken, safe and sound in bed._

" _How do I always end up here?" Richie asked. "Every time I fell asleep, it's always the same exact thing."_

_Jon looked sympathetic, or was attempting to, at least. "Because your life is unresolved. You have questions, and they went unanswered, so your mind is going haywire while you sleep to make up for the stress."_

_Richie felt a shiver go up his spine at the coldness of the air. He rubbed his arms, and stared into the bright blue eyes of the dream man in front of him. "Why can't I just figure it all out on my own?" He asked, suddenly desperate. "Why can't you just leave me alone? For the love of...Why-Why are we like this?"_

_The sound of his voice was unexpectedly shrill and sharp, and Richie hated it, the helplessness, the unknown of what was happening. Jon gazed at him with a sadness that was beginning to become like a second face to the general neutrality. "Because this ain't the movies, and we ain't heroes."_

_And then, in a split second, Jon was no longer in his chair. He was right in front of Richie, and grasping at the other man's shirt, his slender fingers entangling in the thin fabric. Richie tried to pull away, but just like the other dream, Jon had an unexpected strength that didn't suit his nearly gaunt frame. He held on tight, and Richie knew that there was no use fighting._

_So he sat, and raised his hands so that he could hold onto Jon's wrists, holding him there._

_Jon, in a sudden change of demeanor, looked panicked. Richie didn't like that look, didn't like how sudden the atmosphere in the apartment changed, and wanted to leave._

_"Please, Rich. You need to think." Jon said, and there was a tone in his voice of combined panic and fear that made Richie understand the levity, and and it was just like that did he think, and figure it out, a solution, however ridiculous it may have been._

-

It all faded away. 

Richie awoke, with the feeling of a body pressed close to his quickly disappearing under a newfound understanding...and a deep sadness, as his eyes skimmed over that damn photograph. 


	19. Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tired.

It takes nearly half an hour for Richie to remember, properly and fully, where Jeff Beck lived. 

He doesn't shower, but takes care to make himself presentable. It's early, too early, but Richie has never been good at waiting, and most definitely isn't going to spend a few more hours with the pressing idea wandering in his head with nowhere to go. Richie dressed quickly, brushed his teeth, and made himself a cup of coffee. He was still tired after having wakes up prematurely, but there was no going back to sleep, not until this was over, at least. 

At first, Richie considered having to ask somebody where Beck lived, but when he finished the coffee, and as the bitter taste of the liquid began to dissipate from his mouth, the address came back, slowly, like from a haze, and Richie remembered. 

The picture was laying on the table. Richie grabbed it, unsure of why, exactly, but just needing it, like a security blanket. It felt important in a way beyond words, and Richie wasn't about to question it. Not yet, at least. 

He slipped the picture into an inner pocket in his jacket, and zipped it up. 

Richie left the apartment quickly. He locked the door behind him, and the sound of the lock sliding into place was audible in the silence of the hallway. There wasn't anybody out at such an hour, and it almost made Richie consider going back inside and waiting, if only an hour. It would be common courtesy, but there was a niggling voice at the back of his head, a whisper, saying that he needed to get this done.

Whether or not it would work was a whole different question. 

In fact, _this_ could all be for nothing. Richie didn't want to think about how he was about to do this all, and how it might not even help the situation. But as he stood in the elevator, the music ringing in his ears, it felt right. 

' _What if this is all I needed to do?'_ Richie thought, hand pressed unconsciously to his chest, above the photograph. This could either end in failure or be a success, or maybe it would be both. 

The walk down the hall felt longer than normal. In fact, it seemed to stretch on...and on...and on, until Richie had to stop, and glance back at the elevator just to ensure that he was actually getting somewhere. 

He wasn't even nervous. If anything, Richie was eager to finally have some sort of idea of what to do, and not to be relying on his broken memories. 

Richie knocked on the door, an oddly hollow sound that echoed through the hallway. He could already feel the creeping impatience after only a second or two, which was probably a bad thing, but there was an urgency to see this done and over with. From the other side of the door, Richie could hear somebody talking, and then a loud thump, as if Jeff or whoever was behind the door had tripped over something.

And then silence. 

It felt final. 

The door opened. Jeff Beck appeared in the darkness of the apartment behind him, hair ruffled and eyes squinted in the sudden brightness of the hall. Richie was a little remorseful for having awoken the doctor so early, but _this_ was not important than sleep. It was more important than a large majority of things in life. 

"Why are you- what happened?" Jeff said, probably still half asleep and confused about the sudden interruption. Richie wondered if Jeff even recognized him, but decided that he probably didn't. After all, at least a week had passed since their brief meeting after that fight. 

But then he remembered meeting Jeff again when he'd gone to visit Jon for...something. Richie already couldn't remember. 

Richie schooled his expression into something a little less irritable. "I'm sorry for waking you." He started, a bit awkward. "Richie Sambora, remember me?" 

Jeff frowned, and then he nodded after a moment of speculation. "Yes, you were there during that fight, weren't you?" He was talking like he didn't even believe himself. "Yeah." Richie confirmed with a small nod.

Debating his words inside his head for a moment, Richie wondered if he could continue small talk, or just should go straight to the point. It would probably do no good just standing there and dancing around the actual point, so Richie went in for the kill. 

"Can I come in? I need a favor." Richie said, crossing his arms, and then letting them fall back to his sides when he realized that he probably shouldn't come across so intimidating. Jeff immediately looked suspicious, but he nodded, nonetheless. "Sure." He agreed, moving aside so that Richie could enter the apartment. 

If Richie wouldn't have known about Jeff's occupation beforehand, then he would've been able to guess from the apartment alone. It was filled with all kinds of psychological books, fancy artwork, and a chaise. It was almost amusing, how stereotypical it was. 

There was a pretty brunette standing in the kitchen, looking like she'd hastily gotten dressed, watching them closely, obviously confused. Richie stopped in his tracks, suddenly embarrassed, remembering vaguely what Jon had said a few days prior. 

_He's going through a divorce._

"Um...I'm sorry, I didn't know that you had somebody with you." 

Richie suddenly realized the awkwardness of the situation.

Jeff just shrugged, wrapping the robe he was wearing a little tighter around himself. "Yeah, it's fine. Diane, hon, can you give us a few minutes, alone?" He asked. Diane looked borderline offended at the suggestion, but she obviously knew that there was no point arguing.

Diane sighed, rolling her eyes as she grabbed a cup off of the kitchen counter. "Whatever." She muttered. Jeff winced at the obvious venom in her voice, and then started to rub his eyes in exhaustion as Diane stormed off into the hallway and slammed the door to, presumably, the bedroom. 

"Do you want a coffee?" Jeff offered, flicking the lights on, bathing the apartment in a golden glow. Richie shook his head, his eyes briefly scanning the books that were neatly stacked on the bookcase. The titles were unfamiliar, but they seemed to hold some sort of significance in the darkness of Richie's mind. 

Richie lightly traced his fingers against the titles. "I need a favor. We don't know each other really well, but you're the only person I know that can help me."

Okay, _that_ was an overstatement, but Richie knew that it was right thing to say.

Jeff frowned, his eyebrows furrowed. "What do you need? Listen, if it's money... " He trailed off, leaving the sentence to hang in the air with its unfinished implications. 

"No, no, nothing like that." Richie was quick to assure him, but it did remind him of incoming rent, and his job, which he had to be at in just a few hours. Richie wasn't too concerned about that, however. "You're trained in, I dunno, hypnosis?" 

The words felt awkward and clunky, a failed attempt at nonchalance. A lesser man would've backtracked and just pretended that none of the encounter had taken place at all, but Richie was too far, too deep, and wouldn't back down. 

As if physically struck by the words, Jeff stumbled back. There was a rather incredulous look on his face. " _Hypnosis?"_ He repeated. 

It was a ridiculous possibility, and an equally ridiculous solution. It might not work, but Richie was going to try, no matter what. The memories mattered more than anything, and as they lay, just beyond his grasp, Richie would reclaim them. "Yes. Listen, Jeff, I'm dealing with all this weird shit and hypnosis is...well, it might help, to give me back something that I've lost." 

Jeff sighed. "Look, Richie, you're a nice guy and all, but hypnosis is something beyond what you think it is." 

"I don't care what happens, Jeff, I need to _remember."_ Richie was at the end of his rope. He was tired of not remembering, of memories that lay just beyond reach, of this roundabout way of living that involved a man who was acting like Richie was the devil himself. It was beginning to wear on Richie, and he just wanted answers. 

And maybe, just maybe, they could move on. 

Jeff sat down, hands folded, eyes kind and soft. It was a far cry from the stoic man before, and Richie was momentarily startled by the change in demeanor. 

"This has something to with Jon, doesn't it?" 

It wasn't a question, not really, because Jeff already knew, and when Richie answered with silence, the therapist laughed, so softly that it was almost inaudible. 

It was almost offensive. But Richie bit his tongue against a sharp retort, and instead stood there, unsure of how to deal with it. He wasn't sure how to deal with anything, really. All Richie was doing at this point was so long with the punches. 

"I could tell." Jeff said, his voice humored, but it doesn't reach his eyes, which still held that same kindness. Richie stood there, feeling like he was in a dream again, but this, _this,_ was real. "You two have a history. I could tell from the way you guys looked at each other. Of course, Jon never told me anything. He's a very private guy...or with me, he is." 

Richie wasn't sure what he was supposed to respond to that with. But it was somewhat comforting to know that Jon wasn't just like that with him. "Please, Jeff. I don't care what happens, I just need to try it, and see if it works. _Please."_ Richie said, horribly aware of how pathetic he sounded. 

"Why, Richie? What do you hope to gain from this?" Jeff asked. 

_My life back._

There was a clear, honest openness in Jeff's eyes, a want to know, and maybe, a want to help. Richie had to trust in that, and with that thought brought a sadness, because that's what the whole world was about, wasn't it? Having to trust in people. 

"My memories." Richie answered.

The words echoed in the silence, and Jeff finally seemed to soften, as if it had struck a chord with him. He signed and folded his hands, dark hair falling into his eyes, sleep still clinging to the corners of his face. 

Jeff looked increasingly reluctant, but at the same time, he was standing up, shaking his head, like even be couldn't understand why he was doing this. "Let me use the bathroom." He muttered. 

\- 

Five minutes later, Richie was now sitting on the couch, and Jeff sat across from him on a kitchen chair, hands folded, looking like a true professional despite his robe and striped pajamas. 

Most of the lights had been turned off, save for a nearby lamp, which has a blanket thrown over it to dim the brightness. Diane had gone home, leaving in an angry huff. Jeff seemed unbothered by the display, focusing on the task at hand, which seemed to be a complicated matter. Richie didn't know the first thing about hypnotism besides that people could recover their memories by going under, and so he was trusting Jeff with...well, a lot. 

"Are you comfortable?" Jeff asked. 

Richie nodded. 

"Okay. Now, I want you to relax. This won't work if you're not relaxed." Jeff said. 

Taking a deep breathe, Richie forced himself to even his breathing and relax into the couch. His legs are dangling off one side, and it was a rather awkward fit, which made it rather tough to try and relax, but he did, after a moment of careful contemplation at the ceiling. 

Jeff nodded in approval. "Now, I want you to clear your mind of everything and anything. Don't think about me, or what we're doing. I need you to think of absolutely nothing." He intoned in a low, soft voice, like he was talking to a spooked deer. 

' _How am I supposed to do that?'_ Richie thought. How could people clear their minds so easily, especially when they were being hypnotized? That wasn't exactly an easy feat, but he tried it, anyways. 

A few minutes went by. 

"Okay." Richie said, resting his hands on his stomach and fighting to not think of a single thing. Not about Jeff, not about Jon, not about the situation. Not about the memories or the possibilities that might come from this encounter. 

Absolutely nothing. 

The room was dark. Richie stared out into the endless sea of black, broken only by the faint glow of the lamp. 

"And now I want you to close your eyes." 

With no sight to rely on, Richie became ultra aware of the slightest noise and sensation. He could hear the traffic outside, and a loose thread on his shirt tickling his skin. But Richie forced all of them from his mind, trying to keep it clear, a blank slate. 

Papers rustled. Breathing. Traffic. A dog barking. Crickets. 

Jeff sighed before he began talking. "You're going to find yourself drifting off. Do not fight that urge. Sink into that oblivion." He said. 

Now that Jeff was saying such things, Richie _did_ begin to feel tired. 

"Envision yourself in a theater. It's a dark theater, and you're completely alone. There's nobody else in there with you. The couch is now your seat, you are sitting down, and you're staring at the screen. The only light is coming from that screen, but there's words on it, too." 

"Can you see those words?" 

Yes, yes, he could. 

Richie could see the words, big, black letters that stood out.

**R E M E M B E R**

The words struck him like a slap. 

And so did the memories.

Bursts of bright lights, like fireworks in the night sky. Voices, low and loud. Faces, people, music. 

_"You're drinking too much." Jon said, flicking his lighter on and off and on and off, a compulsive habit. Blonde curls hung in his face, eyes sharp and weary, like he was preparing for a fight._

_Richie, sitting across the table, grumbled deep in his throat. "You smoke too much." He replied._

And- 

_"You either talk too much, or shut yourself off completely. Which one are you going with now?" Richie said, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed high over his chest._

_Jon scowled. "Your insults are always too notch."_

Then- 

_Shadows hung in the night, and boots stomped on the concrete. Fire burned brighter than a thousand suns, and that pretty much summed up the night's events._

_"Why are you always like this?" Jon said rheotrically, weaving through the trees that had been planted on the edges of the sidewalk. His hands were stuffed into the pockets off his jacket to ward off the cold._

_Richie followed closely behind, trailing a few feet away. "Why do you think?" He said._

_"We both like to feed each other's fires."_

Years of memories. Times gone by, flashes of bright smiles and whispers of adoration in the night. Uttered laughs. Fingers trailed against skin. 

_"I love you."_

_"I love you, too."_

Naked skin, flushed and pressed against his. Why kisses, at first, and then eager and fast. 

Under the covers, and in the alleyways. 

Playing guitar, and a certain blonde coming to sit beside him. 

" _Who are you writing that for?"_

_"You."_

Laughter. Talking. Crying.

_"You must be dumb."_

_"I'd have to be, to date you."_

Doors slammed. Whispered apologies. Anger and fear rising up. They were young and inexperienced and temperamental. 

" _You, Jon. You are the problem!"_

_"I'm always the problem."_

Sadness. 

" _Let's figure it out in the morning. Whatever happens then will happen, it will tell us what was meant to be."_

Ruin. 

"Okay... _I love you, Richie."_

_There was no reply._

Richie jolted up in a cold sweat. He could barely breathe, could barely see, and the memories were fresh in his mind like it'd all just taken place earlier that day. Jeff was crouched beside him, fingers clutched around Richie's wrists. 

The sun was coming up. 

It was a new day, but it was all the same troubles. Except now, the memories were there. 

He could remember, and it was such a refreshing yet shocking feeling at the same time. 

"What did you see?" Jeff asked urgently, eyes wide.

"What did you say to Jon?" Richie returned without missing a beat.

_"You make me miserable." Richie said, not meaning it, not in a thousand years, but the words would cut deep, and his drunken mind knew it._

_Jon sighed. "We all have our flaws."_


	20. Door

They stared at each other for a long, tense minute. 

Jeff sighed, turning away, relinquishing the staring contest and instead looking out toward where the sun was creeping last the swaying curtains. The sunlight reflected in his eyes, shining deep. And then there seemed to be a change of heart, and with a soft laugh, Jeff rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The human mind, when it deals with such mental turmoil, and the person...doesn't fully heal, can be very dangerous." He said. "Simple things, harmless things, can seem so much bigger. I said something that, to you, to me, and perhaps everybody else, was just a simple observation, but to Jon, it perhaps seemed like I was attacking him, or criticizing him in a way that just didn't click right." 

Richie scowled. "That doesn't answer my question." He said. 

"And you didn't answer mine. Okay, look, I said something that was out of place that didn't seem wrong to me but, evidently, it was. Jon got upset about it. What else is there to say?" But Jeff didn't sound like he even believed himself. 

Now that he was back in the world of consciousness, and aware of the world and his own needs, Richie suddenly realized that he was very, very thirsty, and so he stood up from the couch and quickly made his way into the pristine kitchen, where he grabbed a bottle of water. "I think that things are a bit more complicated than that." Richie said pointedly before tearing the cap off and taking a sip. The water burned his throat on the way down, and Richie winced, but it did help somewhat. "And I think 'upset' is an understatement. He literally got hit by a car." 

Jeff flinched, the words seeming to have some sort of effect on the man. "Is he alright? I didn't want to disrupt his recovery. Or talk to Mr. Rashbaum. He's a formidable force when angry, I'll tell you. Poor Tommy learned that the hard way." He smiled slightly as he said that, but then noticed Richie's startled look and the smile fell away. 

"What do you mean?" Richie demanded. 

Things just kept getting better and better, didn't they? When life started downhill, it never really stopped. Richie's mind raced with the implications of the words, about David and Tommy and worry and anger, but that could wait. 

That could wait. 

"Well..." Jeff swallowed thickly. "You see, a few months ago, Mr. Such and Nikki Sixx got into a fight just like the one you witnessed near the staircase. As it turned out, Tommy Lee had said something to provoke Mr. Such and the fight had escalated from words to fisticuffs." Jeff shook his head. "Mr. Rashbaum gave Tommy Lee an earful, I tell you, and Mr. Such was so angry that he spent a few days with Mr. Rashbaum and his roommate because everybody thought he would go and retaliate." 

Richie didn't realize he had been holding his breathe during the story until his lungs ached for air. He took a deep breathe, relieved that it wasn't as bad as first thought. "That's it?" He said, eyebrows raised.

A nod answered him. 

"Jeez." Richie shook his head and took another sip of his water. "You can't scare me like that." He thought about how everybody seemed to have secrets. But then again, he couldn't complain much; After all, he finally could remember what had happened, what had been the final nail in the coffin, what had made Richie leave that eventful night. It was a relief to have the memories back, but it felt odd. 

Richie forced himself not to think about that. "Anyways, what did you tell him?" He asked, determined not to let it go until he got an answer that was satisfying enough to make him stop. Richie took another sip of his water and then sat down at the table, emotionally exhausted. 

Jeff attempted to ignore the question, or at least tried to stall it. He shuffled his feet while placing the kitchen chair he'd been sitting on back to its original space, and then opened the blinds. Richie squinted against the sudden light, but didn't mention his discomfort. 

Then, he made coffee. 

It was only then that he sat down on the couch, mug in hand, looking resigned. 

Richie suddenly felt sorry for the other man, but not enough to just wave the question aside. It was important to know, because maybe, just maybe, it could prepare him for later, when the inevitable would happen. 

"We were talking about his wife." Jeff said, staring down at his coffee like it was the most interesting thing in the world. His voice was low, but not like it had been earlier. In fact, it was like he was trying not to be overheard. "I was tired. He looked exhausted. I suggested that maybe he was blaming himself because he couldn't save her. Or help her." 

Outside, a bird chirped out a long melody. 

It seemed too cheerful for the situation. 

Richie remembered being at the hospital when his father was in his last days. He could recall the strong smell of antiseptic, could recall hearing the squeaking of wheels, and remembered how it felt when his father's hand, bony and weak, was within his own. Richie had blamed himself, as ridiculous as it was, because he felt as if he could've somehow saved his father, even though the cancer had been so bad at that point that there was nobody who could've done a damn thing about it. 

"So he just left?" Richie said, trying to ignore the wave of grief that swept over him as he remembered his father and their last day together. 

Jeff nodded. "He had been irritable all day. But yeah, just got up and stormed out." 

That didn't seem too shocking. 

But that brought another question, one that made the hairs on the back of Richie's neck stand up, as if he was sin a dark alleyway, and just realized that there was somebody creeping up behind him. The question should've occurred to him earlier, but it hadn't. Perhaps it had just escaped Richie's mind, or maybe the pieces hadn't quite connected like they should've. 

"Jeff..." Richie started, and then paused briefly before he could finish the sentence, this question that had somehow escaped being voiced, a single important moment. "Who was driving the car that hit Jon?" He asked. 

Having stood up a moment earlier, Jeff looked up from where he was washing out his mug. "They didn't catch them." He said, his voice a little slow, a little confused. "It was raining heavily. Jon was too upset to pay attention and was knocked unconscious, so he didn't get to see who did it. They must've been terrified and drove off to avoid jail time." Jeff furrowed his eyebrows as he put his mug in the dishwasher, already onto a different implication. "I don't get how people can do that, just leave somebody in the street to die." 

No, Richie didn't either. And then thought of what might've happened if somebody hadn't discovered Jon, or if he hadn't woken up on his own, whichever had taken place, was terrifying, and Richie was startled to notice how suddenly emotional he felt. "Who discovered him?" Richie asked. 

"Mr. Torres did." Jeff answered. "He went out to buy some paints and found him." 

' _Thank God for Tico.'_ Richie thought. And then he stood up, the chair screeching unpleasantly against the flooring when he pushed it back so he could stand. Jeff grimaced at the sound, and probably out of fear that his hardwood would get scratched. "You're leaving?" Jeff said, and the tone of his voice was undeniably happy for the sudden change. It was almost funny, how excited he was for Richie to leave.

"Yeah." Richie confirmed. "Thanks for your help, Jeff. I appreciate it." 

\- 

The water was viciously hot. 

Richie gasped when it first hit his skin, drenching his hair and hitting his face like a million tiny missiles. But the heat was welcome, and it seemed to almost pull Richie back to reality, away from the dregs of what had happened, and pulling him back down to earth. 

"Ground control to Major Tom." Richie said to himself, laughing a little despite the humor that he couldn't find. There was a hysterical edge to his voice, but it wasn't too surprising. 

After all, he'd just been hypnotized. 

There were lingering fingertips pressed against his skin, and lips ghosting against his cheek, a shy touch. Richie could still hear Jon's voice, and see a face that was shining bright with a smile that couldn't be rivaled, and _god,_ Richie missed it. 

As he stood under the hot spray, Richie missed the touch, and feeling of a love that was so engulfing, but had been ruined by such little, insignificant things. 

Now that he could remember it, the memories were just reminders of everything that they'd both lost. 

Richie turned the water off, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around his waist. 

The sun has fully risen beyond the horizon, and the sky was a rich, vibrant blue that offset the events that has already taken place. Richie dressed quickly, eager to get out of the muggy bathroom, but took an extra moment to root through his old clothing, which had been tossed aside in a pile on the ground, and retrieved the crumbled photograph. 

"Well, look at you, me, us." Richie mumbled, staring back at the eyes that looked up at him with no idea as to what was about to happen. It was saddening, to see how free and happy they both looked as compared to know, scarred and hurt. 

Back then, they could barely keep their hand off of each other for a few minutes at a time. Now, Jon seemed to hate him. 

And Richie couldn't blame him.

But the mere sight of Jon, years ago, was enough to make Richie's heart ache when he compared it to the _now._ Oh, how things changed, so suddenly that it was like whiplash. 

Richie wanted to see that smile again. He wanted to see Jon's face light up once again, to see that jaded weariness fall away, and be replaced by the happiness that once was. 

_But how?_

He got dressed, brushed his teeth, made himself a cup of coffee, and then say down on the couch, unsure what to think or say or what he was supposed to do. The good thing out of his situation was that Richie finally could recall what had happened so many years ago, but the bad thing was that, now, decisions had to be made on both parties. 

Richie knew that they needed to talk, but how would they go about it?

A message notification popped up. Richie pressed on it, waited patiently as the screens switched and his messenger opened up. It was a number he knew all too well, and it seemed to cause a shockwave through his body, causing him to freeze up in surprise. 

_Richie, can we talk?_

For such a simple message, it sure did pack a lot of punch. Richie rolled his eyes, wondering what Cher even thought that he was going to do. He had no intentions of ever talking to her again, much less in such a way that clearly was Cher trying to veil that she wanted to be together again. 

Not even wasting his time with a response, Richie simply changed her number. 

Besides, he had enough on his plate without having to worry Cher and her issues. In truth, Richie found himself glad that they were no longer together, and really didn't find himself missing her like expected. 

Richie drank the rest of his coffee, wincing as it burned his throat on the way down, and stood up. ' _Might as well get this over with.'_ He supposed, trying to calm his nerves as he gathered his jacket again. It wasn't obligatory that he immediately go and talk to Jon, but what else was he supposed to do? It was the weekend, and Richie didn't want to spend more time than he had to in an empty apartment that held nothing but silence. 

The hallways were empty still. 

Long and winding, like something out of a horror movie, Richie climbed the stairs. He was debating with himself on how he was supposed to start the conversation, if he should go slow or just dive into what had happened immediately. 

In the end, it was all up to the mood of the man whom Richie was about to spill everything to. 

Richie prepped himself for the inevitable as he raised his hand and knocked on the door. It was almost startling to hear footsteps so quick coming for the door a minute later, and it was even more startling when the door opened to see Jeff Beck...again. 

He really was everywhere. Or maybe it was just Richie's imagination acting up. Either way, Jeff Beck smiled a little awkwardly and shuffled side to side, as if unsure of his place. 

"Nice to see you again." Jeff said, and it did genuinely sound like he was pleased. 

Richie raised his eyebrows, curious. "What are you doing here?" He asked, having not entirely expected anybody but Jon to answer the door, and certainly not Jeff. 

"Apologizing." Beck answered. 

It shouldn't have been as shocking a sit was to hear the answer. But the idea of Jeff Beck willingly apologizing seemed oddly preposterous, despite the evident fact that Richie didn't even know him all that well.

"Right." Richie said. "Can I come in? I have something important to talk to Jon about." He sounded more irritated than deliberately meant, but that was nothing to dwell over, certainly not now, at least. There were more important things to do. 

But, nonetheless, Richie smiled, trying to soften the tone of his voice.

Jeff blinked, apparently just as startled. "Oh, yeah. Yes. Let me just go grab my coat and say goodbye." He said, and, with that, he quickly disappeared further into the apartment. 

Richie followed. 

As promised, Jeff was in the living room with his coat hanging over one of his arms. Richie couldn't hear what the other man was saying until he moved marginally closer, loathing to be seen just yet. 

"-and we all know that I really am not in the best position." Jeff was saying, a vague, uncertain smile playing around on his face, as if unsure about whether or not it would be welcome. "Again, for what it's worth, I apologize for my words. I didn't mean to upset you." 

There was a response, but it was too low for Richie to really hear it.

Jeff laughed. "Yes, I expect you would, since you're paying me half." 

Then they shook hands like they'd closed a deal over something lucrative. Jeff straightened up and quickly made his way over to the door, smiling briefly at Richie when he went by. 

Richie supposed that he _was_ being harsh, but the time for that could come later. 

He walked into the living room, seeing Jon flinch slightly in surprise before settling down once he saw that it was just Richie. 

Jon was on the couch, his legs curled up beside himself. His cat was curled up on his lap, tail flicking as he purred in pleasure at the hand that was stroking through his fur. "Hey." Jon offered as greeting. It was far from unfriendly, but there was a rather rough undercurrent to his voice.

"Hi." Richie said with a small smile, settling into the couch beside the one that Jon was sitting on, making sure that he had his space but not wanting to put too much distance between them. "How are you feeling?" He asked. 

Shrugging, Jon stiffly adjusted his position. "Terrible." He replied. 

Richie nodded. He would probably feel pretty terrible too after being hit by a car, though Richie was tempted to point out that Jon probably wouldn't feel so bad if he hadn't been so insistent on moving around so much, but that wasn't imoirtant, and it probably wouldn't improve the situation overall, so Richie bit his tongue with that subject. 

"So, what were you and Beck talking about?" Richie asked, fully aware that it was none of his business, but asking anyways because the idea of bringing up everything that had happened so fast was suddenly incredibly unappetizing. 

Jon frowned. "Why are you here?" 

_Of course he wants to get straight to the point._

The tension was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. Fear and anxiety began to pool in Richie's stomach, creating a dreadful mix that made him feel inclined to just run out that door and never return. It became hopelessly clear what Richie was about do, and it was also clear that things were about to change. 

And perhaps for the best, maybe for the worst. 

"Right, okay." Richie cleared his throat, shifting on the couch, his gaze turning toward one of the walls because he didn't want to look straight at Jon, not yet, anyways. "So, Jeff and I, wait, no..." He shook his head, trying to figure out how to voice what had happened in the best way possible. 

Jon raised his eyebrows. 

That seemed to make it worse. 

The cat meowed. 

That also made it worse. 

Richie became fixated at a tall willow tree that could be seen standing right outside of one of the windows. It was tall, lonely, old. Thick leaves rustled in the wind, brushing against the window. "I had an idea, and Jeff went along with it." Richie said, unsure of why he was trying to defend Jeff, but not questioning it. "To make a long story short, I have-" Richie broke off, sighed. "Okay, my memories are back."

The sentence came out more harshly than intended. years

Jon visibly tensed up. The sudden movement seemed to bring him pain, but the words were evidently more important. "What?" He gasped out, hand pressed against his ribs lightly. For the first time in years, a flicker of excitement and maybe, possibly, happiness passed over Jon's face, and he almost seemed to brighten up, if only for an achingly brief second.

For that single second, Richie saw the young man that he had fallen in love with. 

"You do?" Jon said, sitting up a little straighter. "How much?" He asked eagerly. 

"Everything." Richie answered. "When we met, the fights, and everything in between." 

He could remember everybody, everything, those little moments that were forgotten by the years and the big moments that were forgotten because Richie being unable, or perhaps not wanting, to deal with the situation and everything that came with it. 

The tension lessened, and Richie didn't know who to thank for that. 

"Jeff hypnotized me." Richie explained, sensing the unspoken confusion. 

Jon nodded slowly, seeming to be taking all the information in. It took a few minutes for him to finally speak again. "Okay." He eventually said, his hand resuming its slow stroke against his cat's back. 

"Okay?" Richie repeated, at a loss. "After what I just told you? That's all you say?" He stopped himself from saying anything else a minute later, knowing that he'd already said way too much. It had been a mistake to even say what had been spoken, and was now lingering in the air like silent mistakes. 

"What am I supposed to say?" Jon questioned, his voice merely a whisper. 

"Nothing. I'm sorry." Richie said, quick to rectify what he'd done. He was exhausted after such a long day, and it wasn't even noon yet. The tension was back, and this time, it seemed thicker, more oppressing, and with that came a sense of dread. Things had been going well for a few minutes, and now they were spiraling yet again. It shouldn't have come as a surprise, but yet, it did. "Listen, Jon, can I ask you a question?" He asked, leaning toward slightly without realizing it. 

"Hmm?" Jon hummed. 

Richie took a deep breaths and brushed his hair away from his eyes. He was due for a haircut one of these days, but such a thing took a backseat to the events playing out. "What happened after I left?" 

Emotions swirled in his blue eyes, and just like stormy clouds, the uncertainty and the fear and the heartache, years of pain and misery at the hands of himself and others, turned the placid waters into a tidal wave. But for all that showed in his eyes, Jon's face remained carefully, naturally blank, and that-well-it scared Richie more than anything else. 

"None of your business." Jon said, simple and cold. It was said with in a tone of finality, and it confused Richie even further.

"What's none of my business?" Richie asked, suddenly concerned. It was amazing, how fast people could file through emotions. Happy and then anger and then confused before, finally, concern. 

But the question hung in the air, unanswered. Instead of answering and possibly opening a whole new door, Jon suddenly switched the topics like it was a job for him. "Well, now that you're up on the times, then I think you should know something." He paused. "Or, rather, have something." 

It was a strange switch. "Oh, really?" Richie said, taking it with stride. 

Jon nodded, and pointed toward another door that was adjacent to the bathroom. "Go on." He suggested, obviously not keen on moving in his current state. 

And, well, who would Richie be to suggest such an offer? 

He stood and carefully made his way over to the suggested door. 


	21. Sense

Richie really didn't know what he was expecting.

A part of him sort of thought that this was Jon's idea of a joke. But that didn't feel plausible. Another thought process was that he was going to open the closet and find dead bodies, which was slightly more possible but didn't really fit the narrative. 

But of all the things that'd been expected, what Richie didn't anticipated was a guitar case. 

And inside it? 

Well, there was only one thing. 

He stared at the guitar for a minute or two, unsure of how to react and allowing his mind to catch up. It was a guitar, and a familiar one, without doubt. Richie frowned and worried his bottom lip between his teeth, deep in thought, trying to remember-

Iwas the same guitar that Richie had with him when the photograph had been taken. 

"Why do you have this?" Richie asked. 

But it wasn't a stretch to figure out why. There was no other reasons. 

"You left it behind." Jon answered. 

Richie had remembered that he'd left his guitar behind, but the idea of going back to the apartment, looking Jon in the eye, and saying that _no,_ he wasn't there to repair their relationship, he just wanted the guitar, well, it would've killed both of them. 

The guitar was covered with a thin layer of dust, but it was clear that besides that, it'd been taken care of. 

He grabbed it, not really knowing what he was going to do but there was a strange sense of _complete_ when the guitar was in his hand. Call it ridiculous, or whatever, but Richie had missed guitars as a whole ever since he gave the hobby. He missed the feeling of one in his hands, and the sounds they made, and just them in general. 

"I guess what I really meant is, why did you keep it?" Richie had missed the reassuring weight of a guitar, and the feeling of one in his hands was borderline euphoric. He had given it up not long after the whole fiasco had happened, but occasionally picked one up every so often to keep his skills sharp. But life had happened, and Richie had gotten rid of his guitars because they never felt right. Playing them didn't give him that sense of wonder anymore, of power. It only brought nothingness. 

"Why not?" Jon said, clearly avoiding the question.

But Richie didn't focus on that immediately, still looking over the guitar. It was a Kramer, and one of the first guitars he'd ever bought. 

Alongside that sentiment, Richie also remembered that he'd played this guitar at a lot of the gigs that he and Jon has went to in an attempt to get a few extra bucks. Like so many other things, he'd left something that he treasures above all else and was only now finding it again. 

"I expected that you would've tossed it." Richie said truthfully. He was finding it hard to talk, though that was just the emotions of now having his guitar, one that he'd forgotten about through all these years, back in his hands. "And, instead, you put it in a closet and kept it after all these years." That part seemed a little odd, but Richie wasn't keen to psychoanalyze Jon right at that moment. 

Jon sighed. "Just brushing up my skills. I'm not very good at electric guitars." He said, his tone a little amused despite the solemn atmosphere in the apartment. 

"What are you good at?" Richie asked, only half-paying attention to the conversation and realizing a second too late how his question had sounded. He cringed at himself, wondering if there was a chance to rectify the mistake. 

But Jon beat him to the punch. "Acoustic." He replied solemnly. 

Richie wasn't sure how to respond, still a little dumbstruck, and only nodded. "Cool." He said in support, dragging his finger through the dust and leaving a line. "Cool, cool, cool..." He muttered under his breathe. 

Time went by. Richie was ashamed to admit that he had no idea how long he took, just standing there and admiring the guitar that he now has no intention of letting go of. 

How did he even forget it, anyways? Richie stopped to think, and remembered that had been at the shop to repair a crack because he'd dropped it (and nearly given himself a heart attack), so it had easily escaped his mind. Richie remembered going to the shop and asking for it, but because he hadn't answered the calls, then they'd called Jon and, well. 

The guitar hadn't seemed so important, because facing a heartbroken lover had eclipsed the payments of a new guitar. 

"Do you want to leave?" Jon said, breaking Richie's train of thought. It should've been annoying, but it was just startling, mostly. Though, there was some humor to be found with Jon's choice of words. 

"What?" Richie blinked, looking up from his guitar and then at the clock. Not a lot of time had passed, but the point that Jon seemed to be trying to make still stood. 

He needed to leave. 

And there was no reason for it, but Richie couldn't help but feel offended. Then again, Jon was still healing, and there was a certain look in his narrowed eyes that suggested irritation. Richie nodded his understanding before Jon could repeat his suggestion. "Yeah, okay. I guess I'll see you later...?" Richie didn't meant for it to come out as a question, but it did. 

Jon nodded. "Yes." He confirmed, still stroking the cat. 

But that didn't feel right. 

It didn't feel right to just leave with that, a vague confirmation and a cloud hanging over them, brewing with thunder and rain. Richie couldn't say why exactly, but he needed to say something else. There was a feeling, deep within himself, that if he left with that, then the situation would go back to the way it was. 

Richie, swimming in a sea of nothingness, and Jon, holed up in his apartment. 

And so he stood there, staring back at Jon's frowning face, debating with himself on what he was going to say. A goodbye? But that would be too final.

The last time he'd left, there hadn't been a goodbye. Just an empty whisper and promises broken. 

"Thanks for the guitar, Jon." Richie finally said, hoping that there'd be a response. He needed one, before he left. 

"Yup." Jon said, staring determinedly down at the floor. 

And when there's nothing left to say, there's nothing left to do. 

Richie made sure the door was shut firmly before he left. 

\- 

The apartment didn't feel so lonely anymore. 

As much as Richie wanted to play his guitar, he didn't exactly trust his skills at that moment after years of not playing, and didn't want to annoy whoever lived beside him. So instead, he cleaned it. 

After years of being stuck in a closet, the poor thing looked dead. 

Richie gathered his supplies, sat down on the ground with his guitar on a towel, and began to remove the strings. This part seemed natural to him, and Richie was partly surprised when he remembered how to take them off properly. 

Then he dampened a cloth and gently ran it down the sides, back and front of the guitar. 

It took a good minute for Richie to find the masking tape, but when he did, he put it underneath the fretboard, his mind full of instructions. It was surprising, how much he remembered, but the hypnosis probably had a hand in that. 

Richie didn't have the proper materials to do what was needed, but he tried to do the best with the supplies at hand. It would ensure that until he got to the store, that at least the guitar was semi-clean. 

After filling a bowl with warm water, Richie retrieved a clean cloth and proceeded to clean the fretboard. Surprisingly, it wasn't that dirty, but it was definitely needed. Afterwards, Richie went digging around in the bathroom for a cotton swab, which he used to clean the buttons, the bridge, and the knobs. 

Then he put the strings back on. 

It definitely looked much better. Richie would've preferred to do a deeper clean, but that could wait. Braving the outside just to get supplies for a guitar seemed ridiculous, and could wait until Richie had to leave anyways, for work. 

For now, Richie could enjoy the guitar that he'd loved and lost. 

So, he did. He re-tuned the guitar with gentle hands, fiddling with the buttons like a child who had gotten hold of their father's prized possession. He was just happy to finally have his guitar back. 

Somebody knocked on the door. 

Richie startled, and then looked back at the door in question. He couldn't remember the last time somebody knocked, and with that being said, he had a long list of people whom knew where he lived and had plenty reasons to come and talk to him. 

' _Please don't knock again.'_ Richie hoped, but a minute later, his hopes were dashed when they did, in fact, knock again. 

Groaning in frustration, Richie set his guitar gently down on the ground and made his way toward the door, peering through the peephole just in case. What 'just in case' entitled, Richie didn't know, but nobody could ever be too cautious. 

A certain blonde was standing outside, nervously tapping his foot in the ground.

For some reason, Richie hadn't expected to see him. 

Richie undid the lock and opened the door, which flew open and banged against the wall as David, without question, stormed in. 

"Uh, Dave?" Richie said, not sure if he should take it in stride or question the situation. When David turned around to look at him with wide eyes, Richie motioned toward the wall. "What was that for?" He asked. 

David flung his arms into the air. "Richie, I think I'm in an alternate universe. Tico says I'm being dramatic and won't listen to me, which is completely like him, I tell you, but I was just downstairs and I-" He paused. 

"What? Did you see something?" Richie questioned, not really concerned because this all seemed natural, like David routinely reacted this way. 

David ran his hands through his hair. "Okay, Richie, you might not believe me but- that's okay, 'cause I don't think I believe myself either. But you gotta listen and keep an open heart, 'kay?" 

Richie nodded his understanding. 

"Okay, _okay..."_ David took a deep breathe. "Nikki and 'Lec were talking and it's rare that they are, y'know, not jumping at each other's throats, and then they-they- they _hugged."_ David sounds borderline hysterical.

A moment or two went by. Richie patiently awaited more information, but David was no quiet and staring at him like the end of the world was coming. 

It took another minute. 

"Wait, hold on- that's all? That's all that happened?" Richie said.

David nodded frantically. 

Silence reigned. 

Richie stared blankly at David, and then he sighed. "Okay. Shouldn't you be happy about that?" Richie asked, moving toward the living room. 

David followed. "I just don't want 'Lec to get hurt." He said, sitting down on the couch and crossing his arms like a petulant child who didn't get his way. "Nikki is a nice guy but 'Lec is one of my best friends." 

Richie sat down with his guitar in on lap, absent-mindedly running his fingers in the backside of the fretboard as he thought. "I think you should know that I talked to Alec a few days ago, and he asked for advice about how to repair a friendship." He said softly. 

David frowned. "Really?" He said, but there wasn't any disbelief. "Alec is usually so stubborn, I'm surprised he didn't just wing it." David shrugged, as if that didn't matter in the slightest. In the span of just a few minutes, he'd gone from borderline hysterical to remarkably calm.

"Yeah." Richie nodded. "But I guess this means that they're friends." 

_Why can everybody fix their issues, except for me?_

"Oh, well." David stood up. "I got some papers that need grading, and a bathroom that needs cleaning. I guess I just needed somebody to talk with me about it." He smiled and bent down so he could proceed to enfluge Richie in a hug. 

Richie returned the affection.

"I'll see you later, bud!" David said as he stood up and walked across the apartment. 

A minute later, the door shut with a firm _click,_ and Richie shook his head, exasperated. 

Why was everybody he knew either weird, unfriendly, or holding secrets to their past together? 

But despite this, having a conversation about something other than the issues that Richie was facing had been refreshing, even though it'd barely been a conversation in actuality. 

It didn't matter. 

Not really, anyways, and if it did, well, that wasn't his problem. 

The rest of the day went by without a hitch.

Richie set his guitar back into the case and made himself lunch, which he did burn, but managed to salvage at the very last minute. He ate it while watching some mindless television show, and when he was done, he decided to read a book. 

The book was one he'd read a million times before, but that was part of the comfort that it provided. Richie had gotten it for his birthday several years ago, and it'd been gifted to him by his father, who had seemed so strong, so healthy, so _alive._

Back then, Richie couldn't have imagined his father in just a few more years, frail and weak, but still with that humor and intelligence that had never failed. 

His last days had been spent with those he loved, and in the very end, no matter how terrible it got, Richie remembered that his father had been strong, and had reassured his wife and son, inconsolable with heartache and impeding grief, that this wasn't the end for him, and that one day, they would be reunited. 

Richie closed the book and set it aside, his eyes burning with tears. 

It was still hard to remember that he was gone. 

It was with those thoughts that Richie remembered his mother, and his promise to come and see her, get the tapes. He cursed and immediately dialed her number, hoping that she wasn't asleep. 

"Honey, don't get so panicked." His mother said as soon as she picked up, like she'd been anticipating this. "I'm not angry." 

Richie, who has gotten up to walk around and relieve some of the tension that was thrumming in his body, paused. "Really? Mom, I'm sorry, I got so sidetracked and- I promise that I'll come by tomorrow, okay?" He said, panicking deosit his mother's placating words. "And then I'll come by next weekend." He added, just to ensure that his mother wasn't truly, really angry. 

His mother laughed. "Oh, honey. Don't worry. I'll see you tomorrow and we can look through those tapes together. How are you adjusting to your new apartment? I feel like you're not telling me everything." 

Richie winced, knowing that the truth was there. He hadn't told his mother about anything that has been going on, only skimming through how he was dealing with some personal issues. "I'm just sorting through some stuff." He said, hoping that his mother would respect his privacy for once. "Really personal stuff." He added for emphasis. 

"So personal that your mother can't know?" Mrs. Sambora asked. 

Oh, no, he couldn't handle that. Richie cringed and rubbed his hand over his face, considering his options. There weren't many, all things considered. He was a mama's boy at heart. "Do you remember Jon, mom?" He asked. "We've, uh, gotten back in touch." 

"Have you?" Mrs. Sambora said. "I always thought you two were so sweet together." 

The words only seemed to make it worse. "Yeah." Richie said, picking at a loose string on his jeans. "It's just that, mom." 

It technically wasn't a lie, but it was far from the truth. 

They talked for a few more minutes, then hung up with goodbyes. 

Richie sighed, sitting back down on the couch. He always hated lying, and he was especially hated lying to his mother. But Richie knew he couldn't tell his mother what was going on. 

He didn't know why.

Night fell shortly after Richie made himself a microwaved dinner. There was nothing much to do besides take a shower and lay down to sleep, staring up at the dark ceiling for a long few minutes before sleep overtook him. 

-

_He was at the park again._

_But it was snowing. Richie could feel the ice crunch beneath his shoes, and the chill creeping up his neck. The sky was bright, and the sun was out in full force, but something looked wrong with it. Richie didn't know what exactly was wrong, but now that he was staring at it, he couldn't get it out of his head._

_Richie looked around, his eyes searching through the winter wonderland. There were people scattered around, men and women and children, making snowballs and snowmen and snow angels, laughing loudly over the sound of talking. The atmosphere was fun, happy._

_But it didn't feel right._

_The laughter sounded fake, and the movements were stiff, awkward._

_It wasn't exactly a relief when Richie's eyes fell upon Jon, but it was definitely reassuring._

_Jon was sitting just a few feet away on a bench, looking toward the people that seemed to be having the times of their lives. He had shoulder-length hair, and had a pensive gaze in his eyes, like he was deep in thought._

_Richie, left without anything to do, sat down beside Jon. The bench was cramped, and their shoulders brushed against each other's, fabric scraping against fabric. "Hi, again." Richie said, figuring that he might as well try to make this dream good._

_"Hey." Jon said, and it was only then that Richie realized that Jon had a piece of paper in his hands. A letter, to be exact, and it was a familiar one, too._

_It didn't take a genius to realize that it was Janie's suicide letter, but the time, and Jon's appearance, didn't match the year that Janie had committed suicide. But it was just a dream, after all, and nothing really had to make sense._

_They sat in amicable silence for awhile, watching the people around them, listening without interrupting. There was a certain sweetness about the situation, one that was lacking in reality. Perhaps because this wasn't really Jon, just a figment of imagination from Richie's mind._

_"So- what's the point in this dream?" Richie asked, his eyes slowly moving away from the people and toward the letter. "Are we going to talk about forgiveness again?" There was an unexpected bitterness in his voice that Richie hadn't anticipated._

_"Not quite." Jon said, brushing his hair away from his face. "We're going to talk about how we're both too terrified to talk about the deeper feelings in this situation because you don't know how to broach the subject and I'm a basketcase." Jon smiled ruefully._

_Richie opened his mouth to interject, but a car honking interrupted him._

_He whirled around, and stared as a red car came to a screeching halt in the middle of the road. There was a body on the ground in front of the car._

" _Oh, Jesus." Richie moaned, realizing that the body's was Jon's. It made his heart lurch, and his stomach rolled at the cold realization._

_Jon didn't look disturbed or unsettled in the slightest. "That's what happens when you don't look both ways." He said cheerfully._

_A part of Richie wanted to go to the body, but Jon just reached over and grabbed his arm in an iron tight grip. "Don't." He said quietly._

_And so Richie just say there, feeling cold. It was all a dream, he tried to reassure himself. This was all a dream, a mere figment of his sleeping imagination, and Jon was upstairs, safe._

_But it didn't make the sight easier._

_"Why am I seeing this?" Richie said, desperation colouring his face. It was all becoming too much, and why couldn't this stop? Why couldn't his life just be normal? He hated these dreams, and hated the empty look in Jon's eyes whenever they were in the same room._

_The whole situation was all terrible._

_Jon released his arm, and stood up. "Because you haven't been listening to me." He said patiently, holding his hand out expectantly._

_Richie looked at the hand, and then back up at Jon's face. He didn't want to take his hand, but knew that there was nothing else to be expected of him._

_So he took the hand._

_They walked, hand-in-hand, like just another couple in the grand scheme of life. The sensation of Jon being so close was familiar, and it was a feeling that Richie hadn't been aware that he'd missed. They walked toward the road, and Richie stopped somewhat, not wanting to go any closer, but Jon persisted._

_"C'mon." Jon urged, and Richie didn't fight, coming along toward the road._

_"What do you- what did you mean, that I'm not listening?" Richie asked once they came to a stop in the middle of the road. He wanted to know details, to maybe get to the bottom of the dreams._

_Jon stepped over the body on the road. His splayed his arms out and tilted his head to the sun, closing his eyes, basking in the heat that offset the previous chill. He didn't answer, not for a long while. Richie didn't know what else to say, and so he stood there, watching, waiting._

_For more answers._

_Richie felt like that was all he did anymore, wait to hear answers to questions that burned inside of him like a million little fires._

_"You look scared." Jon commented, his eyes still closed._

_Richie frowned. "No, I don't." He said, but then he noticed something._

_All of the people were now stating at them, at him. Their eyes were blank and as black as the night sky, mouths agape, fingers pointing to both of the men standing in the middle of the road. They were chanting, a steady mantra of words._

_" **HE IS FALLING FALLING FALLING HELP HIM HE IS FALLING DON'T LET HIM FALL."**_

_Richie's heart lurched, and it suddenly became very hard to breathe._

_"What the fuck?" He gasped, and looked to Jon for more answers, to get rid of the people, like a child who thought that their mother could banish the monster who lives under the bed. Fear was coiled like a snake in Richie's chest, and he wanted to wake up but couldn't._

_Jon only smiled._

_And then the ground opened up, and there was fire, and screams and laughter that combined into a horrendous sound. Richie fell, and Jon fell too, down, down, down..._

**_DOWN_ **

With a strangled scream, Richie jolted up in bed. 

His heart was thundering in his chest, and he felt strangely like crying.

The screams were still echoing in his mind. Richie could remember the faces of the people, could feel Jon's fingers digging into his arm, and the words seemed to still be sounding from the walls. 

He didn't want to be alone. 

Call it childish, ridiculous, stupid. Richie didn't want to go back to sleep, and doubted that he could if he tried. 

It was 4:30 when Richie slipped his shoes on, grabbed his coat, and left his apartment, determined to see if maybe Jon could find sense in his dreams. 


	22. Scrapbook

Jon looked disgruntled. 

Considering the fact that Richie had just come to him in the unspoken hours of the morning, and had probably woken him up in the process, this was unsurprising. 

"So? You had a scary dream, Richie. It happens." Jon said, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose, as if willing himself not to lose his patience. 

Richie sighed. " _Yes,_ but it was a strange dream." He said, trying to enunciate his words to make sure that they come across as Richie wanted them to. "We- you and I - were at this park and there was a whole bunch of people, and we talking and then they started chanting over and over again and then a chasm opened up underneath us." 

"And why are you telling me about this?" Jon asked, clearly getting impatient with the continued talk. 

"Because I'm starting to dream about us!" Richie replied, his hands motioning frantically in the air. "It's getting on my nerves." He added in a quieter tone. 

Jon didn't seem moved by the reply at all. "I don't care." He said, and then he sighed, taking a long, deep breathe and holding it. After a moment, he exhaled. "In case you didn't realize, Richie, I'm kinda busy." 

"Doing what?" Richie asked, looking around the cluttered apartment. 

The whole situation was beginning to frustrate him all around again. 

There was only so many times that they could do the same dance of questions and answers, frustration, recovered memories that didn't really make sense. 

"Breathing exercises." Jon answered 

Richie uttered a short laugh. "That can wait, don't you think?" He said, sitting down but then standing back up again, unable to relax when everything was going sideways again. He ran his hands through his hair and focused his gaze on a picture that hung above the mantel, staring at the waterfall that'd been painted with a plethora of blue. It was beautiful, and so Richie tried to think of that, instead of anything and everything else, if only for a moment. 

Jon watched him carefully. "Not unless you want me to get Pneumonia." He replied sullenly.

But Richie wasn't listening. 

His eyes were still frozen on that picture, blues and whites and greys that combined into a waterfall, rocks, the sky. There were black birds painted in the sky, their wings stretched out for flight. A sort of sadness stuck to the picture, hanging off of it, like a cloak. Near the bottom, amongst a sea of blue, were initals. _TT._

"We need to talk. About us." Richie said, turning back around. "If we don't, then we'll just dance around it forever." 

Jon raised his eyebrows, but didn't say anything. 

It was almost as if Richie as talking to himself, but he still preserved, unable to stop know that he was talking. "Okay. So, I left, right? That's why you're angry at me?" Richie sat down, but his leg was bouncing up and down, up and down. 

With a weary sigh, Jon nodded. 

Richie had a feeling that they were getting somewhere. "Alright. Try to explain your feelings." He said, hands on his knees, leaning toward like secrets were about to be divulged to him. 

"Excuse me?" Jon said, visibly shrinking back into the couch, as if that could hide him. There was an incredulous tone to his voice, but also fear. 

With a nod, Richie reached out and gently grabbed Jon's arm, hoping that touch would sway him, if only slightly. "Maybe, if you explain your feelings to me, then we can maybe try and move on. Isn't that what you want to do?" Richie said, trying to keep everything but light curiosity out of his voice. 

But, the thing was, Richie wondered if perhaps they were afraid to move on, because the last time there was some semblance of up and leaving it all behind, Richie forget everything that happened, and Jon became a recluse. Neither of them had lived happy lives, though, even if it was just for a short while, Richie had thought that he was happy. 

Obviously, that hadn't been true. 

Cher hadn't made Richie happy. She made him a semblance of happiness, like a storybook character who couldn't feel emotions but the author wrote him as happy with his life, how lover, and the whole play because that was what Richie was supposed to get- a happily fucking ever after. 

Jon looked away, the light from the ceiling reflecting in his eyes. He was clearly thinking of what Richie was saying, debating with himself about what to do, say, hell, even think. "Okay." Jon finally said after what seemed like a lifetime of waiting. "I was upset, and then, for awhile, I was happy, then I got upset again." 

Richie groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Take this seriously, please, Jon." He said. 

"I am. Those are my emotions." Jon said, like it was really that simple.

And maybe Jon believed that, in his own mind. But Richie needed something more, and, perhaps, that's was selfish. 

But it didn't matter in that moment. 

"Jon, please. _Please._ Give me something to work with." Richie said, desperation and a strange sort of confusion colouring his voice, and tainting his mind. "This whole time you've been hiding clues in playing sight, dangling your knowledge in front of my face, so please, if you ever loved me, at all, then you gotta tell me." 

The words had their desired effect, though perhaps with an added fire.

Jon scowled, his eyes narrowing like a predator closing in on his desired prey. "If I ever loved you?" He repeated, spitting the words out like they were acid on his tongue. "If I ever- You asshole. How can you tell me something like that?" Jon was only getting himself riled up, his defensiveness mixing with a need to never have somebody else have the last word. "You obviously don't fucking remember like you say you do, Sambora, because if you did, then you would know that I fucking have you my all, and tried, and tried, but obviously my best wasn't - enough." He gasped a little painfully, rubbing his chest. 

It made Richie's heart ache to see Jon so obviously in pain, but they were getting someplace, even if it was just to next-door, because anyplace, anywhere, was better than where they were at, swimming in misery and dining in stifled silence, unable to say what they truly meant without either falling apart completely or getting angry.

"Yes, and?" Richie prompted. "What else, Jon? Tell me everything." 

The prompting seemed to make Jon even angrier, the color high in his face as he stumbled over his words, desperate to get them out but talking too fast to make it a smooth happening. "I said that I loved you, and you didn't say it back, and then you up and left me with that, and went on with your goddamn life." Jon went to stand up, but his legs didn't seem to cooperate with him, and so he just sat at the edge of the couch. "You think that I hate you? Well, here's a news flash for you, Rich, and it's a shocker. You ready?" Jon raised his eyebrows, a manic glint in his eyes. 

"Go ahead." Richie said with a nod, motioning for the other man to continue in his rant. Maybe this was ill-advised, but it was the !its progress they've made in nearly a month. 

Jeez, had it been that long? 

"I loved you, you idiot, more than anything, more than life itself, and goddamnit, if I don't l-" Jon caught himself at the last minute, shutting his mouth so quickly that his teeth snapped together. 

Richie blinked, confused. "What were you about to say?" He asked, but now that he'd nearly said something that must've been pretty damn drastic, Jon was obviously not going to open up anymore, even if that included ranting. 

"Nothing." Jon muttered, avoiding the contact yet again, shutting down like an overheated computer.

There was nothing else to say, in Jon's odd little world, and it was clear in the way that Jon tossed his blanket aside and struggled to his feet without a single word. Richie let him walk away, knowing that there was no possible way to stop Jon as he slammed something around in the kitchen, and then the can opener sounded. 

The cat launched out from the darkness and bolted toward the kitchen for his food. 

Richie glanced toward the clock, and wasn't sure if he should've been reassured or irritated by the fact that he didn't have to start driving to his mom's for another few hours. Truth be told, there was an almost physical force that tied Richie to the apartment and, by proxy, Jon, who didn't seem to be able to care less about the whole situation, and was content to carry on with his reclusive, anti-social life. 

But why? 

"I'm going to go visit my mother later." Richie suddenly said, his mouth acting faster than his brain, per usual. But there was no use backtracking now that the words were hanging, empty and awkward, in the air. "She wants me to get some VHS tapes from the attic." 

Jon didn't respond for a moment. "She's nice." He eventually said, purposefully noncommittal as he leaned against the counter and picked compulsively at his wrist cast. "I'm sorry about you father. He was a great guy." 

It took the words a minute to sink in, but when they did, Richie turned around, startled, and more than a little shocked. "How do you know what happened?" He demanded, a little more on edge than usual. 

Jon looked up, a little concerned. "You told me." He said, walking away a little to put some distance between them. "And Jersey ain't that big, word travels fast." 

Richie's shoulders sagged in relief as he let out a sigh. "Oh, right." He mumbled, feeling a little embarrassed by his sudden alarm at such a small thing. "Sorry, I'm just a little-y'know." 

Maybe Jon didn't know, but he nodded nonetheless, and then turned around and started messing with his coffee pot. "Cancer is a real bitch." Jon said, rattling around in his dishwasher and pulling out a mug. 

Richie chuckled, but no humor could be found. "Yeah, you can say that again." He agreed. 

A rather loud knock interrupted the content silence that'd fallen over them, and Richie jumped, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. He looked at the door, and then at Jon, who was carefully pouring coffee into the mug, but his hand was shaking, and a little bit of the steaming hot liquid spilt over the rim of the mug. Richie hurried toward to grab the pot before Jon burned himself. 

"Thanks." Jon mumbled, looking a little uneasy. Richie watched as he paused, almost as if to gather himself, and then walked out of the kitchen. 

A moment later, the door opened. 

Voices. 

Before Richie could discern the words that were being said, Jon shut the door and walked back into the apartment, a large box tucked under his arm. Jon put the box down the table, but didn't open it, instead sitting down and staring at it intensely, as if it were his mortal enemy. 

Richie, unsure, stood in the threshold of the doorway. 

And then Jon shook his head, and huffed out a breathless laugh.

"Don't mind me, Rich." Jon said, retrieving a knife and using it to tear open the tape that lined the box. He lifted the flaps, frowned, and reached down into the box, pulling out a scrapbook. "I'm gonna make a nice little picture book." 

Richie wasn't entirely sure if that was supposed to be a good thing or bad thing. "Oh, yeah?" He said, just grateful for a semi-normal conversation. "That's cool." 

But maybe he should've been worried, because Jon then proceeded to sort through a previously unnoticed stack of pictures, every single one of them featuring Janie. 


	23. Mom

Richie didn't stick around for much longer. 

Instead, he went back to his apartment and began to get ready for his mother's, wondering how things always went the same exact way whenever Richie went over to Jon's apartment- an argument, and then peace, a constant repitition of the same old act. It's like neither of them would act themselves when it came to their tempers. 

And then Richie's thoughts turned to what Jon had almost said- what had he caught himself on? What was Jon so afraid, so unwilling, to say? Did it even matter, because, in all honesty, Richie could just stop this whole song and dance and get on with his life, but the thing was that he didn't want to. 

There was something that kept Richie from leaving it all behind. 

Maybe that was the whole issue. 

\- 

It was a two-hour car drive from the apartment to Richie's mother, who still lived in the same house that Richie had grown up in. 

The neighborhood was still the same, a place full of elderly couples whose children had grown up and left. As Richie drove up to his mother's house, reciting the address in a low mutter as he peered at each and every house, remembering them from years past. 

Garden gnomes stood like small, silent guardians in front of old houses. An elderly woman was crouched in front of a box of petunias, and planting them into the ground with remarkable concentration that seemed natural to her. 

It was the same old house, but the paint was chipped, and there was no old man sitting in the yard, waving to his neighbors. 

It was the same old house, but it didn't feel right. 

Richie parked, and willed himself not to think about his father, despite everything that remained. A storm cloud seemed to linger above the house, reminding everybody of a man that died too soon. Richie opened the door and stood, looking around at the place that was so familiar, so full of old faces that memories of his childhood popped up here and there. 

"Oh, honey!" Joan Sambora said, opening the door like she'd been lingering behind it, waiting for her son to arrive as planned. She was a beautiful woman, despite her age, with short, curly grey hair and a bright spark in her eyes that had never seemed to dim, no matter what struggles presented themselves. "I missed you so much." She said as Richie met her halfway and they hugged each other. 

Richie had almost forgotten how good hugging his mother felt, bringing back fond memories of being a child, running home and seeing her in the kitchen, arms open wide.

Now, things had changed.

Joan was older, now, and Richie was almost afraid to break her if he squeezed too tightly. There was a fragility to her bones that made old fears rear their ugly heads, and Richie was reminded of his father, and the warnings from the nurses of how careful they had to be. 

But Joan was healthy for her age, and strong, which reassured Richie more than it should've. 

"I missed you too, Ma." Richie said, kissing her cheek and pulling away, feeling a faint tinge of amusement as the height difference became evident. "It's been too long, I'm sorry." 

Joan scoffed, waving the apology away. "Oh, don't be, honey." She said, grabbing Richie by the hand and practically dragging him up the stairs and into the house. "You're busy, after all." 

The interior of the house hadn't changed, though Richie wasn't sure if that was because his mother had grown fond of the floral printed wallpaper or if it was just too late to change it. There was a rocking chair that hadn't been there, and the coffee table was newer, but it still has that distinct old charm that Richie loved, and his mother, as always, had sprayed his father's cologne in the house- it was a coping mechanism for her. 

Richie sat down at the dining table, reminded yet again of how little things had changed when the wood dug into his back and hips uncomfortably. "Still, I had no reason to forget about yesterday." He said, watching as his mother pattered around the kitchen. 

_No reason, except for a certain little singer._

But Joan didn't need to know about that. "Well, I was wondering about those VHS tapes. They probably have a lot of great things on them, but your father put them up in the attic right before he got- well, sick, and I just remembered them." Joan paused and then smiled, shaking her head ruefully. "He's still causing me trouble up in heaven, bless him." 

Richie smiled back, "Probably on purpose." He said. 

Joan laughed and sat back down, setting her tea tray down on the table and giving Richie a mug. "I wouldn't doubt it." She replied, but it was obvious that she wouldn't have had it any other way. 

The tea was piping hot, and Richie hurried to put sugar in, knowing from experience that it was the best way to do it. "What have you been doing, lately?" He asked. 

His mother was stuck, alone, in a house that was too big for her and a dog. Joan Sambora had always been friendly with people, and excited to get to know everybody from her neighbors to the people at the supermarket, but ever since Richie's father had passed, she had grown withdrawn, and rarely interacted with people outside of the ladies at church. 

"Well, I decided to get back into contact with a few people from my youth." Joan said, pouring herself a liberal amount of tea. "There's a woman at church, Marylyyn, you might remember her- she's teaching me how to knit." 

Richie did remember Marylynn, and how she used to bake cookies for the kids at Sunday school. "That's nice of her." He said. 

"Very nice." Joan agreed, stirring in the milk. "While we're on that subject, I also want to know if you could possibly get on a chair and look up on the top of my closet, because I have this book with all these phone numbers on it up there, and would like it." She said. 

Richie nodded. "Of course." 

They talked for a little bit more about things that didn't matter, such as Joan's gardening, the dog, and the house's upkeep, all while carefully avoiding the subject of Adam Sambora, who seemed to be an invisible ghost in an empty chair, listening but never interjecting. 

But the tea ran out, and the conversation began to fall away.

Richie stood up, his chair accidentally scraping against the wood flooring.

"Should I get those tapes?" He asked, but the answer was already obvious. His mother obviously wanted to see those tapes, and it was no mystery why. 

Richie walked up the stairs, reached up, and managed to snag the chord that hung from the attic door, which he pulled down. A cloud of smoke came puffing out of the darkness, and Richie coughed, waving it away. The attic hadn't been opened in probably a year, which meant that it was probably a breeding ground for mice and rats. 

Weary of the stairs and how the wood seemed to bend underneath his feet, Richie climbed the stairs, and made his way into the attic, which had enough dust within its four walls that little specks of it floated around aimlessly. It was hard to see in the enclosed, dark space, so Richie grabbed his phone and turned it on, wincing at the sudden bright light. 

The attic was filled with boxes upon boxes, some of which were open because of the amount of objects that'd been stuffed into them, while others were taped closed. Richie squinted, forced to crouch down in the uncomfortably small space. 

"They're labeled!" Mrs. Sambora shouted from the stairs. 

Richie sighed in relief. "Okay!" He yelled back, carefully inching along the floor.

The first few boxes were baby clothes that hadn't been donated or tossed because of sentimental value. The others were Christmas decorations, and then Halloween decorations, each and every one of them shoved into a corner and meticulously labeled in black sharpie. 

_Richie's baby clothes DO NOT TOSS\DONATE_

_Halloween Decorations_

_Halloween Decorations\Old Costumes_

_Christmas Decorations_

_Christmas Tree_

_Christmas Tree O_ _rnaments_

_Joan's Jewlery_

_Adam's Clothing DO NOT TOSS\DONATE_

Richie paused in his search, his back aching and knees screaming, staring down at the box. His mother had been incredibly emotional after the death, and had been unable to stare at the clothing, hanging in the closet like Adam would return home as usual, so she'd asked one of Richie's cousins to pack it all up and put it in the attic. 

_Books_

_Antiques BE GENTLE_

_Family Pictures_

_Miscellaneous Pictures_

_VHS Tapes_

It was at the far back, near a corner, gathering dust in silence. Richie managed to drag it back to the staircase. His mother had disappeared back downstairs, but Richie managed to maneuver both himself and the box down safely. 

The box wasn't heavy, and Richie carried it back downstairs. 

Joan was near the television, hooking up the VHS player. It was wonder that it still worked, considering how old it was. Richie set down the box and used his keys to rip open the tape, opening the box and staring down at the tapes that'd been neatly stacked previously but had fallen all over the inside of the box while Richie had been carrying them down the stairs. 

Something about the tapes felt strangely foreboding, but Richie looked at all of their labels, such as- **Christmas 1986, Halloween 1983, Adam and Joan's Wedding** \- and knew that they would only give closure. 

"Are you alright, honey?" Joan asked, finishing the set-up and walking over to her son, noticing how pale he looked. But Richie only smiled and wrapped his arm around her, unsure how to tell her that, despite the foreboding, he felt happy that they were doing this. 

So, he just smiled, bent down, and picked the first tape up. "Let's do this." 


	24. Tapes

Hours must've passed. 

_"Do you like your new bike?" Adam Sambora asked, turning to smile at his wife, obviously pleased with himself. "Yeah!" Richie, young and dressed in a pair of footie pajamas, nodded frantically as he marveled at the gift._

It was a long trip down memory lane, of time that'd gone by without a second glance. The footage was hazy, obviously a product of its time, but it felt just like yesterday when all of these events had taken place, marking their history in time. 

_Joan Sambora laughed as she watched her son and husband show off their matching costumes - Robin Hood and one of his merry men._

It was heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time, alternating between laughing and wiping away their tears, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again. 

But, somehow, it was okay. 

"Are you okay, mom?" Richie asked, squeezing his mom's shoulders, even though he could see the toll that his father's death had taken on her, but it was understandable. They'd married, had a child, shared years of their lives together, laughing and crying, arguing but knowing that, in the end, they still loved each other, and could overcome any hurdle that presented itself. 

Except, of course, death. 

Richie had lost his father, and Joan had lost her husband, and both were equally terrible losses. Every day, they would wake up, and have to live in a world without the man who made their lives just that much better. 

"Yes." Joan said, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. "I just have to remember that he isn't suffering anymore." She sighed, and smiled at her husband, immortalized forever, if only in their memories and a screen. 

But, as always, Richie knew that his mother was right. 

No matter how much it hurt now, feeling the loss was better than watching an innocent man suffer. 

The Holiday tapes were gone, now. Richie stood up, crouched down, and rooted through the box, peering at hastily scrawled labels that were faint with age. There were countless birthdays, and plenty of miscellaneous peeks throughout Richie's childhood. It was amazing, how much people could salvage and keep from a time in their life that would otherwise be confined to just their memories. 

So many people, so many places, that Richie had almost forgotten about, if not for a couple of tapes that had survived throughout the years. 

"How about this one?" Richie asked, holding up a tape titled in bold, black lettering - ' **Family Reunion, 1985.'**

Joan looked up from where she ejecting the last tape they'd been watching from the tape player. "Oh, I remember that one." She said, standing up and taking the tape in her hands, examining it. 

They sat down, watching as the screen turned black and then colored with countless people. Richie recognized his father immediately, and noticed, with something that wasn't quite shock nor surprise, that his father had always been smiling. 

_"Family reunion." Adam Sambora said with a small laugh, shaking his head ruefully. "Just another chance to get insulted by the in-laws."_

_Joan, who was a few feet away, glared, but there was nothing but love in her bright eyes. "They do not insult you, Adam. You're always so overdramatic." She chastised, sounding amused in spite of herself._

Despite the rather shaky footage, Richie could see that it was a bright, sunny day, and that the kitchen was not their own- probably his grandmother's, judging by the decor. 

_Adam pretended to be offended. "And you, honey, never see anything that's not right in front of your eyes." He smiled, and managed to sneak a kiss before Joan slapped at him with a washcloth._

"It's nice, seeing him so full of life." Richie whispered, and his mother nodded in agreement. 

There were people that he didn't recognize, but they were likely just aunts and uncles and cousins that didn't come over unless it was an important occasion such as a family reunion. Richie's heart swelled and ached as his parents laughed and loved, alive and with no reason to think otherwise. 

It took a few minutes, but, eventually, Richie saw himself appear and disappear, smiling at the camera, accepting a hug from his mother before walking into the crowd again, obviously in a hurry. "You were always so energetic, even as a teenager." Joan remarked. "Always running from one place to another." 

Richie laughed. 

There was a brief moment where Richie thought he saw Jon, who was immediately identifiable, at least back then, by his curly blonde hair that stood out in a sea of brunettes, but in an instant, the young man who _might've_ been Jon was gone, and Richie didn't want to ruin the moment by bringing the possibility up and having his mother barrage him with questions. 

But why would Jon be at a family reunion? 

Richie tried to remember, but in this case of forgetfulness, it was simply because of how much time has passed. His mother probably would've needed a minute to remember, too, and she had the memory of an elephant. 

"I forgot to ask you, honey, about your job." Mrs. Sambora said as the tape began to wind down. "How is it going?" 

Richie shrugged, genuinely unsure of what he was supposed to say about it. Becoming a Paralegal had never been his first choice at a job, but his parents had been pressuring him and Richie, in a single choice moment, had glanced at the newspaper, saw a job listing, and decided to go get a degree. 

"It's going." Richie replied noncommittally, though, truth be told, he hadn't been paying as much attention to it as he should've. 

After what must've been twenty minutes, the tape was done, and Richie stood up, crouching down to root through the box like a hungry raccoon. At the very bottom of the box, hidden under a thin layer of dust, was a tape. Richie squinted at the title, which had been etched rather hurriedly. 

_'_ **NIAGARA FALLS VACATION, 1986.'**

The words brought an unexpected rush of memories back to the surface, and Richie blinked, a little startled as he remembered the fresh air, and the sound of frantic water falling downwards. "God, I forgot about this." He said, trying to ignore the fact that he's forgotten about a lot of things, though all of them had been much more important than this. 

Joan looked over his shoulder. "Oh!" She said, sounding delighted. "I did, too. Put it in, it was such a lovely time." 

The tape took a long minute to process, but when it did, Richie felt a smile pulling at his lips at the sight. His father and mother, half-hugging in front of the falls, smiling at the camera. Richie was right beside them, and next to him was Jon, who was smiling, genuinely, for the first time in what seemed like forever. 

And right beside Jon were his parents and brothers, so shockingly similar to their elder brother in looks that it was almost shocking. 

"We went on vacation with them?" Richie asked, sitting up straight in surprise at the fact. 

Joan looked at her son, clearly surprised. "Of course we did. They were practically part of our family- Richard, are you alright?" 

For a moment, Richie couldn't find it within himself to respond, so he just turned, and pulled his mother into a hug, feeling lost in a world where everybody could remember, except for him. 

"I need to tell you something, Ma." 


	25. A Release

"What's wrong? You've been acting weird all day." Joan said, obviously concerned about her son. 

Richie sighed, sitting back a little on the couch and looking up at the ceiling. He had been avoiding the possibility to talk about the whole situation with his mother, but there was no way that Richie could go any longer without talking to _somebody_ about this. "I've been having trouble remembering things." Richie confessed, like it was a long held secret that had been weighing on him for years and years. "Jon Bongiovi lives in the same apartment building as I do, and he's been acting so weird, and I've been trying to patch things up, you know, since I left him, but it isn't working, and I just-" He broke off, frustrated at the whole song and dance. 

Joan blinked, and then she sighed, burying her face in her hands, as if to hide herself from the world. "Richie, honey, do you remember that car accident you got into? With that woman you used to date?" 

Richie frowned. "Yes." He nodded, remembering how terrified his parents had been. It had been an accident on everybody's part, but that didn't excuse how they were all at part. And then he paused, realizing what his mother was implying. 

"But the doctors said-" Richie cut himself short, shaking his head a little. 

Nothing had been considered wrong with him, aside from a mild concussion. But Richie hadn't taken good care of himself at all after the accident, and it all made sense. 

"Holy shit." Richie muttered, ignoring the look that his mother gave him. 

The answer had been right in front of him the whole time. Richie hadn't just forgotten about Jon, but about a lot of things from his childhood, teenage years, and bits and pieces of his young adulthood. 

Just a few weeks ago, Richie had moved, hoping for a new start, but now, he was dealing with a passive-aggressive ex, another ex who didn't seem to want to let go, and a loss that still hurt like it had occurred yesterday. "Jon?" Joan said, hoping to change the discussion, which Richie was immensely grateful for. "How has he been doing?" She asked. 

Bordering between the truth and a million little lies, Richie shrugged, struggling amidst yet another hard decision. "He's definitely changed." 

Joan raised her eyebrows, but didn't seem surprised. "Has he?" She stopped, and then looked around the house, as if searching for something. "I believe that I still have his parents' numbers, but they might have changed since then." She stood up and began to rummage around the old, dusty drawers of the small tables that sat beside the couches. 

Richie wasn't sure whether he was supposed to respond enthusiastically or otherwise. "You do?" He said, watching as his mother began to look through her little brown book of phone numbers, but taking a vague reassurance that years had passed and, chances were, that The Bongiovi's had changed their numbers since then. 

"Yes." Joan said, frowning. "As for your memory, hon, I don't think it's all that uncommon." 

"It's not?" Richie said, a little faintly. 

Joan shook her head. "No. In fact, it comes from your father's side of the family - poor memory, that is, coupled with the accident." She finally found the intended number and walked away into the kitchen. 

Riche stood up and followed, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, watching as his mother dialed the number into the telephone that hung from the wall. "You don't have to call them, mom. It probably won't work, anyways." He said. 

"Don't be silly." Joan dismissed, putting the phone to her ear and listening as it rang. 

And rang. 

And rang...

Richie felt his heart quicken with anxiety, until it was practically thundering against his ribcage. More than likely, a stranger would answer the phone, confused and wondering who was calling, but there was chance, however slim it may be, that one of Jon's parents or a brother would answer, and Richie was already feeling stressed. 

There was a small, but audible _click._

Joan perked up. "Oh, yes. Hello?" 

Whoever was on the other end said something. 

"I'm so sorry to disturb you, but I was just looking through some old numbers, and was wondering if perhaps you knew a Carol or John Bongiovi?" She asked, looking way more excited than she should've over the question. 

Richie felt his anxiety jump at the prospect of a positive answer, straining himself to hear the answer that came a long moment later. 

"Oh! Hello, Carol. It's been so long, I know." Joan laughed, making momentary eye contact with Richie, whose eyes widened at the response. Joan was smiling, and nodding along, like she was talking to a long-lost friend, which, in a way, she was. "I was just- I was looking through my numbers list and saw yours and just, oh my god, it's been _ages."_

They talked for a few minutes about nonsense that didn't matter, and about, presumably, how they were doing. Carol Bongiovi had obviously said her condolences, and Joan sighed. "It's been hard, but we've been trying to move on, while remembering him, you know. Say, Richard is here, too. Would you like to talk to him?" 

Richie was about to turn back into the living room and leave the ladies to their chat, but his mother lunged out like an animal and managed to grab his arm, preventing him from moving. Richie was torn between being impressed or irritated about how irrationally strong his mother was in her age. " _No."_ Richie mouthed, but his mother wouldn't have it, and she said something quickly into the phone before shoving it towards him with little warning. 

For a minute, Richie considered just walking away, but that was immature and stupid and ridiculous. It was _Carol,_ of all people, and if memory served correctly, then she was a sweet, if slightly blunt woman who was a joy to talk to, and Richie shouldn't have felt this way about talking to an elderly woman who just so happened to be the _mother of his passive-aggressive ex._

But there was no stopping Joan Sambora, who was glaring pointedly in the direction of the phone, and Richie sighed. 

"Hello?" He said, a little scared about how he would be received, whether or not it would be with open arms or closed faces. 

"Richie?" Carol said, and she sounded practically in awe. "It's so nice to talk to you, again. I'm sorry about her father, honey. He was such a great man." 

Wincing at the mention, Richie forced himself to smile, if only to reassure his mother. "Thank you." He said. "I appreciate that. How have you been doing?" 

_This is so awkward._

Carol hummed. "Oh, same old. John, _John!_ Oh, nevermind, he's napping. My boys have all flown the coop and now I'm stuck in a house all day with an old man who naps all day." She laughed, and, in a way, it struck Richie, how she had the same laugh as her eldest son. 

"Sounds boring." Richie said, for lack of anything better, and Joan rolled her eyes. 

"Only if you let it." Carol replied. "Oh, excuse me for prattling off like an old woman at a tea party. None of my boys call me anymore, and there's only so many people around here. John's a joy to talk to, if only he would wake up. How have you been, honey?" She asked. 

Richie knew that the truth would get them nowhere, but considered it briefly, just for the hell of it. "Um, I'm a Paralegal now." He said, reminded of when he was a child, and forced to tell all of his relatives about school. 

"How wonderful. You know, kids these days have no work ethic. It's all play, play, play with them, always mooching off their poor parents and sleeping sound like a bunch of vagabonds." Carol said. 

Forcing back a laugh, Richie pointed his finger towards his head and twirled it around. 

Joan huffed, and smacked him lightly on the shoulder. 

"Yes, I agree." Richie said, pretending to be hurt and rubbing his shoulder. "So, um, how's Jon doing?" He asked, and Joan gave him a confused look.

"Which one?" Carol asked. 

Richie smiled. "Your son." He said. 

Somewhere deep inside, Richie was sure that there was something going on with Jon besides the obvious. But there was no surefire way of figuring it out...aside from this. 

This- _here,_ was one final shot. 

"Oh, he's been, well, I'm not too sure." Carol suddenly sounded saddened by the question, and tired, too. "He's been withdrawn from the whole world for awhile, now. I have to send his brothers to go check up on him every few weeks, just to make sure that he isn't dead." She laughed, but there was no happiness or humor, just a cold reflection. 

"I'm sorry." Richie said. "I made a horrible mistake." He shook his head, almost as if chastising his younger self for leaving without a single goodbye. 

Carol was silent for a minute. "Oh, no, don't be." She suddenly said, like she'd needed an extra few seconds for the words to comprehend in her mind. "After you left, he was a little quiet, a little angry at the world, sure, but Janie just took the light out of his eyes."

Richie felt relieved, but with that relief came a disgust directed at himself for such a feeling. "What happened?" He asked, needing the details of that horrible day. Janie was like a mystery hiding behind the veil of darkness, just waiting to be discovered. 

"Oh! I forgot that you didn't know." Carol said, sounding almost apologetic for the slight fault. "Janie struggled with depression and bipolar disorder. You see, a few years ago, Jon decided to go on a journey to find himself, I guess, and on his way, he and Janie met, though he never told me how. They attracted each other, hon. Jon got into drugs for a short while, and Janie struggled with her mental health. They both did, actually." 

Richie felt the air suddenly go cold at those words, so innocuous and simple, but holding just another secret.

_Jon got into drugs?_

_"_ Janie was a sweet girl, but she had issues. Jon called me the day after she died, and he was just, my god, crying for the first time in years, talking about how he could've saved her, how he was the one who found her after the suicide, and I don't think he fully got over it." Carol continued, almost as if narrating a book, undaunted by the silence that'd taken over the other side of the phone. "You don't get over seeing something like that, I don't think. It affected my son deeply, you can tell. He doesn't call me or his father unless it's an emergency, and goes weeks, no, months without leaving his apartment. A week ago, I believe, he got hit by a car, terrible accident, but not too serious, thankfully. The only reason we found out is because one of his friends called me." 

Richie had reason to believe that said friend was David, but didn't mention it, hoping to maintain the ruse that he hadn't seen Jon in years, ever since the whole incident. "That's terrible." He said. 

_Terrible, terrible, terrible. Drugs, suicide, so many things, so many secrets._

"Indeed. John- my husband- has been very worried about it all, and has been talking about trying to convince him to come back home, just so we know that he's okay." Carol made a surprised noise. "I have to go. My lasagna is ready. Thank you for calling, Richie, I missed you so much. I just want to let you know, before I have to hang up, that Jon loved you very much. He was torn up after you left, but you had to do what was best for you, and that's most important. May you put your mother back on the phone? I would like to say goodbye." 

Richie obeyed and handed the phone back to his mother before walking away, back to the couch, his mind racing with the news that had been given.

-\\-\\-\\-\\-

He had to leave shortly after that. 

The sky was beginning to darken, and Richie had to work the next day, but it was right on time, since his mother was keen on questioning. 

"But you _know_ how Jon's been doing." Joan said, a tone of desperation beginning to take hold. She was confused and Richie felt bad about that, but it could wait, if only for a little while. "What are you not telling me? You don't remember, okay, but-" 

Richie ducked down and kissed her cheek, pulling his mother into a hug. "Sorry, Ma. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? I need to talk to Jon about something." He felt terrible about leaving his mother, but there was only so many things in such little time. 

"I want you- _Richard,_ I want you to see somebody about your memories." Joan said, watching as her son unlocked the door. 

"I will, mom. I love you." Richie said, slipping out the door. 

His mother returned the sentiments just as the door shut. 

Richie purposefully took the long way back home, his fingers tight on the steering wheel, stopping briefly to get gas before finishing the long drive. 

He had learned several things, countless secrets coming to light, and discoveries that had been laying in plain sight- the car accident, Jon's drug use, which was still a mystery, really. 

' _What if Jon is still using drugs?'_ Richie thought, and to be honest, he wouldn't have been surprised, but then felt guilty, because there was no real reason to suspect such a thing. 

Or was there? 

David was outside when Richie pulled into his parking spot, getting groceries out of the trunk of his car. "Hey, man!" David said when he saw Richie, perpetually in a state of motion, always happy, always smiling. 

Richie smiled. "Hi. You need some help?" He offered, watching as the blonde awkwardly balanced countless bags and boxes in his arms. 

"Nah." David said, and then he paused, as if considering it.

Then he shuffled to the front of the car, which was still open, and reached into it, pulling out a small bag. "Actually-" David said, shutting the door with his hip. "If you would be so kind as to run upstairs and give Jon this, then I would love you forever." 

Richie took the bag. "What, is Jon refusing to go outside now?" He joked.

With a small laugh, David shut the trunk, and started making his way toward the building. "Nah, well, maybe. He pays me to do it, so it's kinda like an extra job for me. I had to get his pain medications, allergy stuff." David shrugged. 

Thankfully, the elevator was clear, and David grunted, letting one of the boxes fall to his feet as they slowly went up. "So, where have you been?" He asked. 

"My mom's." Richie answered, hoping that he wouldn't get questioned.

David either sensed the discomfort or wasn't in a talkative mood, because he didn't say anything, just nodded, and then sighed as the doors slid open. "Great, you just showed me up." David grumbled, flashing a brief grin at Richie to show that he wasn't serious. "I haven't visited my mom in a month. She's been calling _noonnstoop."_ He elongated the last word dramatically. I

Richie took sympathy and picked the box up off the ground. "I'm no better." He said, walking alongside David until they reached the apartment. The door was already open, which was surprising, up until a shadow appeared on the wall, a split second before Tico made one of his increasingly rare appearances. 

Tico looked startled at the unexpected visitor, but smiled. "Oh, hey, there. Been awhile, hasn't it?" He said. 

"Definitely." Richie agreed. 

David laughed. "You look frazzled, my man." He said, looking at his friend up and down, his eyes lingering the paint splattered shirt and messy hair. 

"Well, you _are_ my subject." Tico scowled. "And you just up and left." 

Richie, confused, look between the two, torn between amusement and awkwardness. 

"Chill out." David said, setting the bags down onto the table. He reached in and pulled out a box of cupcakes. "Oh, look, your favorite!"

Tico huffed in frustration, but begrudgingly reached out and took the box. 

' _It's like watching an old married couple.'_ Richie thought, amused, and then he remembered the bag. He needed to get to sleep early for work, and knew that Jon and he still needed to talk. Then again, a talk could wait for a few days. "I should be going." He said, inching towards the door. 

David turned around and waved. "Bye-the-bye, Richie. Tico, say goodbye." He said firmly. 

"Have a nice night, Rich." Tico said. 

So Richie left, taking the elevator back down, resisting that nosy urge to peek inside the bag. _It was none of his business,_ Richie tried to remind himself, thinking back to the last time that he decided to peek his nose into things that didn't involve him, and Jon confessed a secret that could've been kept under wraps. 

Somehow, Richie managed to keep his curiosity at bay, and walked down the hall to Jon's apartment, knocking on the door. It took a long few minutes for an answer to come, long enough that Richie almost thought that something was distinctly wrong, but then the locks could be heard sliding out of place, and Jon appeared. 

Jon scowled immediately, probably wondering why Richie was there, standing like an expectant little delivery boy. His hair was wet and standing up in multiple different directions, and beads of water still clung to his face. Richie was a little startled to find himself staring, and so he hurriedly looked away. "I, um, wait- David got your meds and asked if I could bring them to you." 

Richie hated when he stumbled over his words, and cringed at himself, waiting for a response so he could get the hell out of dodge.

There were only so many breakthroughs he could have in one single day, after all. 

Jon reached out with his good hand and plucked the bag from Richie's fingers, his movements stiff and careful, but it was less like from pain and more from expectant fear. _From what?_ Richie didn't know, and it was none of his business, anyways. 

"Thanks." Jon said, opening the bag and looking in, apparently satisfied with what was in there, judging by his pleased facial expression. Richie shuffled his feet awkwardly, and Jon looked up again, confused. "Is there something that you want?" 

Richie took a deep breathe, as if preparing himself for something, and he didn't even know what. "How is your scrapbook going?" He asked, feeling like somebody else was in control of his body, saying things that weren't intended, but it was too late to go back now, and so all that could be done was to raise his eyebrows in silent question. 

_What the hell is going on?_

Jon looked suspicious instantly, moving back a little further. "It's going fine, thanks." 

Taking his cue from the darkened atmosphere that hung around them like a cloak, Richie motioned back towards the elevator and started walking. "I'm gonna go now, work and all." 

_Why is this so hard?_

The door shut, and the sound seemed to echo. 

\\-\\-\\-\\-

Richie knew that the dreams would come. 

It had been such an eventful day that it would almost be a shock if nothing transpired in his overactive mind. So, he was prepared as he undressed and fell into bed, not even bothering to pull his blanket up to shield against the approaching cold that would surely appear alongside the dreams. 

He fell asleep easily, despite the fact that no exhaustion or tire lingered. 

_-\\-\\-_

_Richie felt like he was watching a movie._

_He was a third person, looking at a time that didn't involve him in the slightest._

_Rather, it was Jon in present form, wearing his long coat, head tilted up to the sky, which was spotted with clouds. He was in a cemetery, and the grave he was standing in front of was simply titled -_ **Janie, who killed herself.** _Plain, but not so simple._

_"Why did you leave me, Jane? Why?" Jon said, and he crouched down._

_Without warning, Jon began to dig at the ground like an animal, his fingers curled and attempting to push past firm dirt, sending it flying behind him in puffs of dark, dirty brown. Richie wanted to stop him, but he was a man in the clouds, watching from afar, unable to do a single damn thing._

_Jon's fingernails cracked, beginning to bleed, but there was no stopping him._

_Digging and digging and digging, a primal urge rising to the top. Jon was snarling and crying, angry and grief-stricken, trying to get to the coffin that lay below six feet of dirt._

_Eventually, after what seemed like hours, the coffin was finally unveiled, and Jon hammered at it with his fists. "Why did you leave me?" He yelled, chest heaving, rain becoming to pour downwards, turning dirt into mud. "Everybody leaves me!"_

_And then the scenes switched._

_Richie was in a dark room, lit only by a single lamp in the corner. He couldn't move, no matter how hard he tried, like there was an invisible force, binding him arms to his sides._

_In the distance, there was a figure._

_It was a woman, tall and thin, with short black hair. She was holding a knife, and slowly slitting her wrists, but instead of blood that pooled on the floor, it was a thick black substance. The woman looked up, and smiled. "Hello, Richie Sambora. Jon likes to tell about you." She laughed. "He talks about you a lot."_

_It was Janie, and she was slitting her wrists, slowly and deliberately, sending that syrupy black liquid to the ground, pooling around her feet in a never-ending tide._

_-\\-\\-_

The phone was ringing. 

Richie sighed, rolled over, and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" He said, unsure of who it was, but fairly sure it was a tax collector or something useless like that. 

It took a minute for Richie to realize that he had been crying, and that there were tears rolling down his face.

Startled, he wiped them away. 

"Why the fuck were you talking to my mother?" Jon demanded, sharp and tense.

Richie blinked, and then looked at the clock. 

_5:37 AM_

"Because my mom made me." Richie mumbled, rubbing his eyes, still mostly asleep. "How do you have my number?" 

Jon sounded like he was walking. "David gave me it." He replied. "But that doesn't answer my question. My mother was all up on my case, wanting to know all these questions." 

Richie frowned, slipping out of bed, shivering slightly. "I'm sorry, but I just wanted to know some things." He said, walking into the bathroom and starting the shower. It was a good thing that he had to start getting ready for work, anyways. 

"Things that are none of your business." Jon said. "They don't know that you left like you did, Richie. Listen, you lost the right to know a damn thing about me the night you left, so don't involve my mother or father or brothers in this. They deserve better than that." 

And then he hung up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Takes Deep Breathe*  
> *Screams Into Void*


	26. Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Eddie Van Halen, who unfortunately passed away of Cancer on Tuesday. He was a legend, not only in his guitar playing, but his personality.  
> May his legacy follow him, even in death.

For the better half of the day, it rained. 

Richie sat inside of his office, and watched as seemingly endless amounts of rain poured from the skies, sending whoever was unwise enough to wander around outside running back on, desperate for shelter against the frigid water. 

But, as the day went on, the rain receded, but the darkness of the day didn't. 

Storm clouds remained, covering the sky and not letting a single sliver of sun shine through. Richie was amused to notice that the weather matched his mood, which had been damped by the early morning phone call that he'd received. 

"If you don't mind me saying something, sir." Jenny, the receptionist, said in a tone of nonchalance, broken by the purposeful glint in her eyes. Richie looked up from his computer, not exactly in the mood to talk, which was quite rare for him, but too polite to tell her to go away. 

"What is it?" Richie asked, suddenly aware of how he'd been staring at a blank screen for the past hour. 

Jenny looked around the office, even though the few people that were scattered around weren't paying even the slightest attention to the two of them. "I think that you need a friend." She said, as if this was some wise wisdom imparted by an old man to his young protege. 

"I have friends." Richie said truthfully, even though he hadn't talked to said friends in the last few weeks. He switched files and frowned speculatively at the case he'd switched to, but it wasn't anything more than a simple neighborly dispute. 

But then he realized what Jenny was implying, and the whole situation became a whole lot worse. "I don't need a girlfriend." Richie added with a tone of defensiveness, but Jenny just smiled, and glanced behind her. 

"I wasn't saying you needed a girlfriend." Jenny said, reaching over and, almost in comfort, patting Richie on the arm. "But you're a people person, and you need somebody to be there for you." 

Richie sighed, wondering if he was really that pathetic that the receptionist was giving him relationship advice when she went through a boyfriend every week. 

Or so he was told. 

"Thanks." Richie said, grabbing his notebook and scribbling nonsense onto the paper, hoping to appear busy. 

But as Jenny left, the heaviness of his situation became apparent. 

Richie was a people person, but most of the time, he was either spending his hours with Jon, or his mother. 

There was surely something that could be said about that, but Richie couldn't figure out what, even though he wracked his brain the whole drive home. 

It wouldn't have taken a genius to realize that Richie was in a tough spot at the moment, but it did take a thoughtful person to try and figure out why he just kept digging himself further into this hole he'd fallen himself in. After all, there was no need for Richie to continue on this runaway ride, since there was nothing keeping him questioning the mystery at hand, which wasn't even a mystery anymore, not really. Richie could just move on, but yet, he was still there. 

Why? 

Richie pulled to the side of the road, another headache beginning to form as he sat there in his idling car. Small drips of rain were beginning to fall from the sky, signalling yet another rainstorm, and it was no surprise, really. 

Glancing beside him, Richie saw a cemetery, and his heart twisted, seeing the identical rows of gravestones that'd been shoved into the ground and left to stay, a grim reminder of what befell their owners. 

It was a bare miracle that Richie's father was buried much closer to home. 

Richie desperately needed some fresh air, so he stepped out of the car and, despite the frigid rainwater falling from the sky, started walking, barely remembering to lock the car behind him, since he was in an unfamiliar part of the city and really didn't need that problem on top of all the others. 

Walking along the graves, Richie glanced at each and every ingraved name, noting that he didn't know a single one of these people, but, at the same time, one of them could be a person that Richie passed by in the grocery store or met at the bank, but he would never know, and that was a dark thought, knowing that, for each and every person, a time would come. 

Maybe it would be with a bang, or a whisper, but in the end, it would be the same outcome. 

Richie looked up at the sound of wet leaves crunching underfoot, and froze at the sight of a slender finger dressed in black moving along the graves. He was glancing at the graves as he passed, but it didn't look like the figure was searching for something. 

No- he knew exactly where he was going. 

For a few minutes, as Richie watched the stranger pass him by without mind, he didn't recognize the soft brown hair and familiar black coat, but then his eyes adjusted to the pattering rain, and he recognized the man as Jon, who was moving with a rather awkward gait, but undaunted by neither the rain or pain. 

One part of Richie wanted to leave, and give Jon his privacy, but then that nosy part of him resurfaced, even though there was no mystery to be found in the outing to the cemetery. 

Rather, it was incredibly obvious to realize where the younger man was headed. 

In spite of this, Richie couldn't bring himself to leave, and instead stood there as the rain increased into a steady downpour, which was going to ruin his suit, but that wasn't much of a concern since, after all, there were identical ones just like it tucked away in his warm closet. 

Jon either didn't see him, or didn't care to make a big deal since he was probably assuming that Richie was just another mourner, coming to ponder over people that'd been loved and lost. 

A few feet away, Jon came to a stop, and Richie slowly moved toward, not noticeably, but just enough to hear over the sound of rain. 

He felt terrible for doing such a thing, but at the same time, it was always curiosity, brimming just beneath the surface, niggling and persisting until, eventually, you just had to do what it said. 

Jon crouched down, but became unsteady for a moment where it seemed like he was about to fall backwards, but managed to regain his balance and remain on his feet. 

Trickles of rain slipped down his pace, trailing down his gaunt cheekbone, falling onto his jeans. "It's been awhile." Jon said, his voice rough and hoarse, like he'd been crying, though it was impossible to tell with the distance and the rain. "Two weeks, I think." He added, as if it really mattered. 

Richie watched, and strained his ears to listen, despite how intrusive he felt. 

"But I have good reason, hon." Jon smiled ruefully, but there was nothing but a desperate sadness in his eyes, once bright and full of life, now dull. "I had to force myself to leave the apartment, 'cause I was so afraid. You're probably thinking about how dramatic I am but if you were in my position, you'd see." 

A small pause, and then Jon resumed, frowning yet again. "I gotta tell you, Janie, you sure weren't lying when you said you were gonna leave a mark on the world, because you really left a big hole in mine. Jeez, what'dya thinks gonna happen when you jump off a goddamn bridge? It's ridiculous, really." 

Richie felt a chill go up his spine, but it wasn't because of anything more than the frigid air, made even worse by the rain, which was still coming down with equal fervor. 

"Frank's been doing fine. Sometimes, I wonder if he has the capacity to miss people, or if he doesn't give a shit because there's still somebody to feed him. I don't know, and frankly, it's not important." Jon shrugged. "It's just one of those things, I guess. Anyways, I've been making you a nice little scrapbook, so, just maybe, I can fucking move on." 

The curse was startling, but Richie understood, in a distant way, how Jon must feel. 

Jon raised his good hand, and dragged his through his hair. "It's unfair, hon. How can you leave me and-" He paused, but it was only to gather himself and take a deep, gasping breathe. "God, Janie, I love you so much, but can't I move on? Every day, I think of you, and remember you, and I just can't anymore. You're driving me to the brink, baby, I'm so sorry to say it." He sighed, and then reached into his coat, searching for something. 

After a few seconds, Jon pulled out a single crumbled, sodden rose, its bloody red color tinged to a dark black by the rain. "I tried my best." Jon mumbled, setting the rose down on the concrete placement right under the gravestone. "I love you." 

Richie felt a familiar constricting around his heart, like a snake was curled around it and squeezing with all its might.

He was a stranger, intruding upon a holy union that was cut short far too soon. 

Jon remained there for a moment more, looking down at the gravestone with a look akin to misery, and then he pulled his coat tighter around his body and started walking away, his boots sticking to the mud that was beginning to form. 

There was a car sitting near the sidewalk, idling softly, and Jon sat down in the passenger seat. It was a familiar car, but Richie couldn't figure out for the life of him who owned it, and a second later, it was driving away. 

Richie didn't know why, but as the car disappeared in the distance under the cover of heavy rain, he walked through the gravestones until he was standing in front of the same one that Jon had vacated just a few minutes prior. Richie looked down at the slab of concrete, seeing the rose as the petals fell apart under the water being poured onto it, and then the name, ingraved into stone, a woman gone too soon. 

_"Janie"_

_Jane Roxanne Bongiovi nèe Moore_

_The world didn't understand, the beauty you had behold_

-\\-\

By the time Richie managed to get back to his apartment, the sky had cleared up significantly, and he was soaking wet.

Alec was just getting ready to leave while Richie was getting out of his car, and the other man let out a loud laugh when he saw how utterly sodden Richie was. 

"Oh, shut up." Richie grumbled, knowing that he had nobody but himself to blame.

With a smirk playing on his lips, Alec opened the drivers side door. "I ain't saying anything, man." He paused, and then shook his head, still amused. "What, did you get stranded?" 

Richie could feel the sun, and felt like rejoicing in the warmth of its blaze. "No, I was just an idiot." He replied. 

Alec reached into his car and pulled out a blanket, which he tossed to Richie without warning. "Here, you can give it back to me later." He said, still snickering.

Barely managing to catch the blanket, Richie smiled. "Thanks, Alec." He said, knowing that he was going to look ridiculous, but hoping that the hallways were relatively empty at this time of day. 

Thankfully, his hopes came true, and Richie managed to get back inside of his apartment without a single person seeing him. There were certain things that would embarrass Richie to no end, and one of those things were if he caught speed-walking through the hallway while wearing a quilt. 

Richie quickly changed his clothes into something much more comfortable, and then sat down with his laptop, using one hand to dry his hair while the other entered the laptop's password and then typed into the browser- 'Jane Moore.' 

A second passed while the laptop processed the request, and then a series of social media accounts, obituaries, and similar links appeared on the screen. It was a common name, after all, and shouldn't have been much of a surprise.

Richie typed in- 'Jane Roxanne Moore'. 

This time, Google produced less results, but they were much more specific, and after scrolling for a brief moment, Richie felt his heart leap as his eyes skimmed over a result titled, 'Woman Jumps Off Bridge After Losing Job, Husband Finds Her Three Hours Later.' 

It was from a news blog, written by a woman who obviously was some sort of investigative journalist. 

Richie hated to stereotype, but he automatically could tell what kind of person this woman was, and she was the sort that tracked down people and dug deep into wounds that had yet to heal. 

He hated her on sight. 

' _Last week, a local woman located in New Jersey decided to end her life by driving to an abandoned bridge, a place noted for previous suicides, and leaping off toward the hard ground below. At the same time that she hit the ground and died, her husband found a letter entitled to him, read it, and frantically hailed down a taxi to find his wife, who was already beyond saving.'_

Despite having barely read half of the article, Richie couldn't read any more, disgusted at how invasive the whole thing was, even though, just an hour before, he'd been eavesdropping. 

Instead, he scrolled down, and clicked on a link attached to Janie's name, which brought him to a website for some hospital located several miles away. 

Janie was pictured, smiling and holding up a certificate for some sort of award for her heroic actions. 

From what Richie was tell, Janie seemed to have saved a young woman who had attempted suicide, and the irony of the whole situation struck him like a slap. 

Of course, the people who saved others, could never save themselves. 

Shutting down his laptop, Richie sighed and stood, knowing that there was nothing else that could be discerned from the internet. 

For the next few hours, Richie didn't do anything in particular, just made himself dinner and watched mindless television, his mind drifting away from the earlier events of the day, and for the first time in a while, not stressing about the remaining mystery. 

He lay on the couch, hands folded on his chest, feeling the familiar pull of sleep tug at his eyes. 

The thought of dreams didn't cross his mind. 

\\-\\-\ 

" _Oh, God. Not again." Richie moaned, cursing himself for not thinking of the dreams before he'd fallen asleep to try and prepare himself._

_He was back on the roof, with the wind in his hair and legs dangling off the roof without a care in the world. The city below was full of dancing lights, and Richie forced himself to look away because it was starting to make him dizzy._

_Heights weren't a big fear of Richie's, but then again, he had never been quite so close to falling before, no matter how fake this was._

_For a moment, Richie was mistaken to think he was alone, but then he caught a flash of blonde hair, and he looked up to see Jon, young and smiling, standing on the ledge with no fear. "Yes." Jon said, spreading his arms and backing away, his feet dangerously close to the ledge. Richie's heart constricted and his eyes widened at the sight of such idiotic bravery, and he reached out, even though they were too far away from each other for any real contact._

_"Get away from there." Richie said, his mouth dry, watching as the younger man became so close to falling that it was like something out a movie, but then again, this was all a dream._

_Jon tilted his head, all innocence. "Why?" He asked, like it was some big mystery that couldn't be solved._

_"Because it's dangerous." Richie said, pushing himself up into a standing position, knowing that it was a dream and that nothing bad would come out of Jon falling because this was all some figment of his imagination, but fear and- love? prevented much coherent thought._

_The wind picked up, as if to add tension to the situation at hand._

_Jon grinned, and his teeth looked sharp in the dim light. "You don't care." He said, voice bitter despite the grin. "That's why you left."_

_It was all a dream, yet it felt so real in the fluid way that Jon moved, and how he somehow managed to seem both unbothered and stuck on the past at the same time. Richie winced, stepping toward carefully, playing his part despite not knowing the script. "That's no true." He denied._

_But yet, that's evidently what the real Jon was thinking, so why was Richie wasting his breathe on this?_

_Jon danced too close to the edge and nearly tripped, but managed to regain his balance. His eyes lit up when Richie flinched at the near save, and Jon tilted his head up and laughed at the sky. "I'm a figment of your imagination, and yet, you're trying to save me." Jon leaned toward with a curl beginning to tuck at his lip. "I. Don't. Exist." He said, punctuating every single word._

_Richie felt like breaking down and crying like a child, but only a small tear slipped out from the corner of his eye. "I don't want this. I never asked for this, Jon. I don't want these dreams-" He reached out, and managed to snag the hem of Jon's denim jacket. "- I want you."_

_The words slipped out without a care, a confession in the silent night._

_Jon smiled, and this time, it was slow and sweet, the one that seemed to light up the whole room- no, the world. "That's all I needed to know."_

-\\-

Richie sighed, and reached out. 

The phone hadn't been plugged in the previous night, and it was at a low charge that would need to be fixed before Richie had to go to work, but that could wait a few seconds more. 

Scrolling down on his recent contacts, Richie pressed on Jon's number, and pressed it to his ear, listening to the phone ring and ring, until it finally went to voicemail. 

"This is Jon Bongiovi. Please leave a message after the beep." Jon said, and he even sounded irritated in the message, distracted by something else in his life, and not fully paying attention. 

Richie rubbed the bridge of his nose. "This is Richie, and I need to talk to you. If you don't want to talk, then that's fine, but we need to solve this, and we won't get anywhere from the way we've been headed. We can meet anywhere you want, just call me when you're available. I hope that I'll see you soon. Bye." 


	27. Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the sporadic chapters, I'm not in a good place mentally.

Richie jumped into the shower, dressed, brushed his teeth, and it was only when the bread was in the toaster and Richie was leaning against the counter debating on which jelly he would use did the phone ring again. 

The sudden noise in the relatively silent apartment was startling, and Richie jumped, his hand going to his chest to feel his rapidly beating heart as the noise continued, a constant alert. He walked over to where it was sitting, charging on the couch, and wasn't sure if he should've been relieved or terrified when the number registred in his mind as that of Jon's. 

Hurriedly reaching down before the ringing stopped, Richie unplugged the phone, swiped the 'answer' button, and pressed it to his ear, heart still pounding from the earlier fright.

"Hello?" Richie said, unsure of what he was hoping to hear, but knowing that it involved some sort of positive answer to his voicemail. 

"Why do you want to meet up?" Jon demanded, his tone angered, but beneath that anger was a thin sliver of anxiety that caused the faintest tremor in his voice. 

Richie frowned, but knew that it was none of his business, despite his earlier escapades. "Because we need to talk." He said simply, walking back over to the kitchen when he heard the familiar sound of toast popping out. "And I have some important things to say." 

The toast was much more burnt than it should've been, but Richie didn't want to make another batch so he just grabbed a plate. 

On the other end of the phone, Jon sounded like he was pacing, and it made Richie worry about what had made the younger man such a nervous wreck, and whether or not it involved him. "Fine. Meet me at the mailboxes." 

Shaking his head in exasperation, Richie smiled despite himself. "Okay, I'll meet you at the mailboxes." 

And then, just as the answer came, Jon hung up on him without another word, probably in anger over what was happening, though Richie couldn't help but wonder if it was Jon's way of getting revenge, a show of disrespect to match what had gone over so many years ago. 

Despite the fact that it would probably take a while for Jon to get down there, even with the elevator, Richie hurriedly swallowed his toast, nearly choked on himself, and then went searching for his shoes. 

The ones from the day before were caked in mud and had been left to dry on the washing machine, but Richie didn't have the time nor energy to clean them up, so he just had to settle for a pair of beaten up leather shoes that Richie really, really hoped he wouldn't get in trouble over. 

He didn't look his best, but all things considered, Richie certainly didn't look his worst. 

Locking the door behind him, Richie glanced at his watch, and was pleased to see that it was nearly two hours before he had to go work, so he had all the time in the world to sort things out. 

The elevator was occupied, so Richie took the stairs, hoping that the rough use wouldn't scuff his shoes and just make them look even worse. It was just one of those things about working in an office that Richie absolutely loathed, but couldn't do a single thing about besides quit, which obviously wasn't going go happen any time soon. 

Life was already stressful enough without adding jobs to the mix. 

On his way down, Richie debated on what he was going to say, and nearly smacked himself once he realized that there was no plan in place, and that he was going down there with only a vague idea of what he was going to do. He could feel the anxiety creeping up already, but don't dare to stop and think about it. 

It took about ten minutes for Richie to finish his trek, and he arrived at the mailboxes, strangely disappointed to see that Jon was already there, texting on his phone. "Did you take the elevator?" Richie asked, breathless, leaning against the wall to try and calm his racing heart. 

"No." Jon said, sending the text and putting his phone back inside his coat. "I was already here." 

Despite the anxiety and tension, Richie smiled, and shook his head, amused in spite of himself. He looked down at his shoes, and winced at the scuff mark that was clearly evident on the light brown leather. "Jeez." Richie sighed, still trying to gather himself. 

Jon shifted. "What were you gonna say to me?" He asked. 

For once, Jon didn't seem angry, just forlorn. His eyes were rimmed with red, and there seemed to be a sense of sadness that clung to him. Richie wasn't sure whether that was good, bad, or if he should just get on with the talking because it was clear that both of them needed to be in other places. 

For Richie, it was work. For Jon, nobody knew. 

"Right. Um...well." Richie cleared his throat, took a deep breathe. "So, I just wanted to start by apologizing, I guess. For everything." He started to play with his hands, needing something to look at besides Jon and his saddened gaze. "When I left, I wasn't thinking straight. I was angry, and it wasn't really at anything you'd done, but at myself. When I left, I didn't have a plan, regardless of what you might think, it was just one of those - things, I guess, that you do without thinking and can't go back on, y'know?" 

Jon nodded. 

"I didn't forget you on purpose." Richie said, and it was then that he felt a certain tug at his heart, one that suggested a deep sadness that went beyond just this situation. "I don't think anybody could forget you on purpose." 

The compliment, tilted as it was, made the corners of Jon's lips upturn in a brief, glancing smile. 

It was enough to encourage Richie to keep going. "The things we said that night, I didn't mean it, and neither did you. But we were both too stubborn to apologize, and that's how we ended up here." 

Jon seemed to take the words in, nodding slowly. "Richie, I appreciate that, but maybe we should go somewhere a little more private." He smiled politely at an unfamiliar man who was approaching, and without another word, turned and walked away, his steps hurried. 

Richie had no choice but to follow. 

In silence, they took the elevator up a few floors, and without consulting Richie in the slightest, Jon led them both to his apartment, which he unlocked quickly. 

It was unnaturally cold in the large space, and Richie frowned, shivering slightly. 

But the motion either went unnoticed, or Jon was still too angry to do anything about Richie's discomfort. "Sorry, go ahead." Jon said, motioning for the older man to continue in his words, leaning against the wall. 

Richie noticed that Jon seemed significantly less irritated than he'd been earlier, and took it as a good sign. "I called your mother because I needed to remember." 

"Yeah." Jon nodded, rubbing his arm. "I'd rather you haven't, but what's done is done." 

"I'm sorry." Richie said, looking down as the cat stepped between his legs, twisting and turning, his tail trailing against Richie's shin. "I want to ask you something, and you don't have to answer, but - I really need to know." 

Jon didn't say anything, just bent down and picked up his cat, as if to create a shield against the question.

It didn't seem to work. 

"You hated drugs." Richie said, hearing the desperation as it creeped into his voice without need. "You refused them, remember? You couldn't so much as touch a needle without getting all freaked out about it. But then..." He let the sentence drop off, unable to say much more. 

Jon smiled ruefully. "You'll do a lot of things when you're desperate." He murmured, face buried in the cat's fur. "I thought that I was - well, boring. And that's why you left, because I was boring. Boring old Jon, who didn't do drugs. Oh, well, what's done is done...again." 

The words didn't quite sit right with Richie, who felt his heart drop at the confession. "Oh, no, that's not why I left." He said, feeling that horrible sense of failure and disappointment, mingling in his stomach. "Don't believe that." 

"Well, what the fuck was I supposed to think?" Jon said sharply, and then he paused, closed his eyes. "Sorry, that was unfair." He let the cat down, and then made a break for the kitchen. "Do you want tea?" 

Truth be told, Richie hated tea, but he couldn't find it within himself to refuse the offer. "Sure." He agreed, walking into the kitchen and looking around. It was somewhat startling to see that there was only one chair at the dining table, when there was usually four, and maybe it was ridiculous, but something didn't feel right about that. 

Jon frowned. "Just take the seat." He said, filling the teapot with water and setting it down on the stove. 

There was no use in arguing what had already been decided, and so Richie sat down, tapping his fingers on the table restlessly as Jon pattered around in the cupboards, his eyebrows drawn and lips pressed thin. It reminded Richie of years ago, a time when they could both standing each other's presence long enough to hold a conversation, and he felt himself smile, just a little bit, with the thought. 

It was Jon's thinking face, and it was so ridiculously adorable that-

_What?_

Richie stopped to think about the words that'd just crossed his mind, confused and worried, both at once. The thought was odd and shocking, and involved the sort of thing that hadn't crossed Richie's mind in years. 

"So, why did you move here?" Jon said, sounding like he was forcing those very words out, but he was trying, and Richie gave him that. Jon was trying, and though it was clear how much he didn't want to be having this conversation, it was happening. 

Richie cleared his throat. "My girlfriend broke up with me on the same day I lost my job, if you can imagine. So I had to scramble to find some sort of living situation or else I would be living with my mother." He laughed. 

Jon made a noise that might've been a chuckle, or a cough. "How is she?" He asked. 

"Good, all things considered. How about your parents? And brothers?" Richie accepted the mug of tea, setting it down and wondering how easily he could get away with not drinking it. It reminded him of being a child again, and trying to figure out how to to hide from his mother that he hadn't eaten the brussel sprouts. 

"They're alright." Jon paused, and then shook his head. "I need to call them." He mumbled, slowly sipping his tea with a contemplative gaze in his eyes. 

Richie realized that he'd been drowning, and this was his lifeline. "You should." He perked up slightly, knowing that this was his chance. "They worry about you a lot." 

Even Richie could see that, _hear_ the concern in Jon's mother's voice when she talked about him. They seemed to have good reason too, after all. 

Jon tilted his head down, allowing his hair to partially obscure his face. "They shouldn't." He mumbled, and then before Richie could even think about those words that sounded so fateful, so empty, Jon suddenly tilted his head, and looked at Richie curiously. 

"Do you have work today?" Jon asked. 

Richie frowned. "Yeah. Why?" 

"Because I have work. Take the tea with you." Jon said, waving vaguely toward the mug, as if he had more important things to do. This was probable, but Richie realized that he couldn't leave, not yet. There was still two hours to go, and he wasn't going to leave just because Jon was getting uncomfortable with the turn that the conversation was taking. 

It wasn't fair, not for either of them. Richie didn't want to add fuel to the fire, but he needed to salvage what had been broken, and put back together these jagged pieces. "No, I don't have work for another two hours. Yours can wait." He said, putting on his authoritative voice, which didn't seem to work. 

Jon scowled, which seemed to be default for him. "No, it can't. I have deadlines, you know. _Clients."_ He whispered the last part, like it was a secret, not meant to be divulged freely. 

"It's two hours, Jon. Nobody visits you, do they?" Richie didn't like the implications of that sentence, but judging by the way that Jon flinched, it was true. He was being cruel in his words, but sometimes, a little tough love was needed if they were going to make any sort of progress. "Exactly. You're not going to be the one running away this time, Jonny." 

The nickname, familiar and kind, slipped out without warning, and Richie almost felt like slapping himself. He didn't have that right to say the name, and judging by the conflicted look in Jon's eyes, he was probably thinking the exact same thing. 

But _thinking_ was the keyword, here, because Jon has yet to say a single word. 

Richie took that as opportunity to speak while he had the chance. "You're angry at me, and I understand that. But you're not being fair, and I don't understand that." 

"Do you?" Jon muttered. 

"Why can't you make progress? You were seeing a therapist, weren't you?" Richie grasped at straws, searching for the name in his mind. "Jeff Beck, right?" 

Jon uttered a thin noise. "He's going through a divorce." He said, covering his eyes, as if terrified to look at the world, at Richie, and see the product of so many things gone wrong. "On vacation somewhere in Barbados." 

Richie nearly laughed. ' _I sure as fuck need a vacation.'_ He thought, running his hand through his hair. Jeff Beck was such a fucking asshole, and yet, Richie couldn't find it within himself to be mad at the other man because none of this was his fault if you were to willingly forget the whole car incident. Jeff was just a helpless bystander, a therapist who was just trying his very best, caught up in a war. 

But was it a war? 

"Okay. Can't you talk to David? Or Tico? Hell, I'm sure Alec would help you." Richie motioned around himself. "There's no reason for you to become a hermit!" 

"I'm not a hermit." Jon said softly. 

"That doesn't matter!" Richie felt like screaming, but not out of anger - just exasperation. "This isn't healthy! Lingering over Janie isn't the solution for all your problems! It's just making it worse!" 

"Don't you - don't drag her into this." Jon said, sounding close to tears, but then he lowered his hand and his eyes were blank. "Janie doesn't deserve to be dragged into this." He was shaking. 

Richie closed his eyes, inhaled slowly through his nose, and then opened his eyes again. "I'm not saying that you need to let go of her, all that I'm trying to say is that you need to find better coping mechanisms for dealing with the loss." He took a sip of the tea, as if that would lessen the tension, but it was cold and left an odd taste in his mouth. 

"You have no fucking right to dictate how I grieve her." Jon said, looking so small and pitiful from where he was curled into the corner of one of the counters, arms wrapped around his torso, refusing eye contact. "I don't get to tell you how to grieve your father, don't tell me how to grieve my wife." 

Standing up, Richie crossed the room, closing the distance that seemed so empty and cold. He leaned against the counter, unsure of himself, unsure of Jon, of everything. Richie felt like he was on a tightrope, and one wrong move could ruin it all. "You're right." He said, reaching out, and lightly pressing his hand against the point of Jon's elbow, and it felt like he was touching glass, fragile and ready to break at a moment's notice. 

Jon noticeably tensed. "You need to see a doctor." He said, shifting. "For your memory. You need to remember what you haven't already." 

"I know." Richie said with a nod. "I still need to make an appointment." 

They stood in silence for a moment, punctuated by the ticking clock, and the sound of cars outside. Richie noticed that some of the coldness had melted away, but he didn't want to think about what has caused that besides those words, jumbled and awkward as they may have been. "I'm sorry for leaving you alone." Richie said, staring out at the window, unable to make eye contact, brief as it may have been. 

Jon began to bite the nails of his good hand almost compulsively, a habit he had undoubtedly picked up recently. "I'm sorry for being a jerk." He muttered, and it may have been Richie's imagination, but he leaned into the touch, if only slightly. 

They weren't quite halfway there, but they were pretty damn close.


	28. You

"I - ah - guess I should get going now." Richie said, shifting and looking down at the floor. Something felt different, not only mentally, but physically, but Richie couldn't figure out what. He did know that some of the tension had seeped away, and that it felt significantly less dark in the room. 

Jon moved away, and Richie's fingertips burned with the loss. "Okay." He said, and then his lips twitched in something that may have been a very weak attempt at a small, fragile smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. 

It made Richie's heart hurt a little bit less, anyhow. ' _At least I'm not the only one trying to make things okay.'_ He thought, but that wasn't quite fair, now, was it? 

Because this had somehow turned into a group project, of sorts. Everybody in their lives seemed to be embroiled in this mess of combined hostility and hope, trying to make things better but only succeeding in making things significantly worse. 

Except now, things don't seem so bad. 

"I'll call them." Jon said, fiddling with an object in his pocket - his phone, more than likely. 

"Call who?" Richie asked, though he supposed that the answer wasn't so mysterious. He thought back to their earlier conversation, and remembered what he'd said. "Oh, call your family?" 

Jon nodded, looking rather nervous, as if the prospect of having to call his parents and brothers made him want to dig a hole, crawl into it, and pull the dirt back over himself. "They worry more than they should." He said. 

Had the situation been less serious, Richie would've laughed, but the seemed rather inappropriate, given the context, so he stayed silent on that matter. Instead of pointing out the incredulousity of that statement, Richie grabbed his mug and poured it down the drain. Jon either didn't notice or didn't care about such a thing, and was instead picking at his nails. 

Richie almost told him to stop. "Can I come by tomorrow?" He asked. 

Something unspoken flashed over Jon's face, an emotion that couldn't be deciphered. "Yes." He answered.

Whatever they would do tomorrow - argue, talk, whatever - it didn't matter, because Richie knew, at that moment, that things were getting better, if only a little bit. They weren't quite at that mark of friendship, but they were pretty damn close. He felt his heart lurch in excitement, and didn't care about whether or not it was warranted. "I gotta go. See you later, okay?" He said, unsure of whether or not he was stalling on purpose, or if it was accidental. 

Richie didn't want to leave, and the prospect of what that meant both terrified and intrigued him. But as he left the apartment and shut the door behind him, there was a cold and grim reminder that Jon was still dealing with the loss of Janie, and that Richie still had a lot of things left to do. 

Pulling out his phone, Richie pulled up his messenger as he realized that his mother had texted him nearly twenty minutes before. She was asking him about work, and whether or not it was treating him well. 

Laughing a little at his mother's unending worry, Richie texted her back that, yes, work was great. 

Better than usual, in fact. 

Richie resisted the urge to tell her about Jon, and sent the text before he had a chance to. Richie loved his mother dearly, but she was nosy, just like he was, and didn't know the difference between other peoples' business versus hers. It was endearing until it began to involve Richie's own struggles that he preferred to keep private. 

He took the elevator down, and went back to his own apartment to get his essentials for work. Richie found his thoughts turning back to Janie without warning, and he thought about that letter.

Janie's one last remnant of life, a mark of what remained was confined to a single note detailing all her hidden thoughts. Richie remembered how she confessed to not loving Jon, and wondered why she stayed, then, if she didn't love him. 

' _Maybe she just needed somebody with her.'_ Richie supposed. 

It wasn't any of his business, really. 

Richie grabbed his bookbag and keys, locked the door behind him, and walked back to the elevator. Just as he was about to press the button that would take him down to the first floor, a sharp yell pierced the early morning quiet. "Hold the elevator!" A man yelled, and Richie obeyed, pausing as frantic footsteps echoed through the hall. 

David appeared, carrying a bag with him. "Thanks." He said breathlessly, leaning against the wall for a minute before joining Richie inside of the elevator. It was quite apparent that David had gotten dressed in a hurry, and had ran most of the way from wherever he'd been to where Richie stood, a little confused. 

"No problem." Richie said. "Where are you going?" His finger hovered above the buttons. 

"First." David said, and Richie pressed the button, watching as the doors closed and they were left alone in an enclosed space. 

"Are you okay?" Richie asked, his confusion growing significantly. 

David nodded, and then, with a smile, he offered the bag to Richie, shaking it slightly to prompt him. Richie frowned and took it, testing the weight and finding that whatever was inside wasn't heavy, but not light, either. 

"Tico made something for you." David said, straightening up and beginning to adjust his jacket. "Something _special."_ He chuckled softly under his breathe and looked up at the window of numbers above the doors, slowly ticking down. 

_3....2....1...._

The doors opened, and David stepped out, fumbling in his pockets and pulling out a pair of sunglasses. 

"Oh." Richie said, staring at the bag, knowing that it was quite obviously going to be a painting but, nonetheless, still a little nervous by the prospect. There was a bunch of gift wrap bunched around in the bag, so Richie couldn't see the painting or what had been painted upon the canvas. "That's really nice of him." 

David nodded. "Yeah. He decided that you were a nice guy so he did what everybody does and painted you a pretty picture. He did the same with Jon and Alec and just about everybody else." He smiled fondly, and then waved. "Well, I gotta go. See ya' later, Richie." He started to walk away. 

"Wait!" Richie yelled, and David half-turned around, eyebrows raised behind his sunglasses, arm stretched out to push the door open. "Tell Tico I said thank you." 

David raised his hand in understanding. "I will!" He said, walking out the door and toward the parking lot. 

After a moment, Richie followed, walking out of the apartment building and toward his car. He got in, set the bag on his lap, and like an excited child on Christmas Day, tossed aside the paper and pulled out the canvas. It was of medium size, and featured a forest - dark greens and browns, twisting and winding trees, a pathway that descented into the forest and the darkness of an inky black. 

In the corner, the initials _T.T_ had been painted.

Smiling, Richie suddenly felt a rush of happiness, of a deep assurance about his place in the world. There was something about the painting that signalled acceptance and kindness, and it made Richie feel glad to have ever moved to this apartment building. It was a beautiful painting, and Richie was already wondering where he was going to put it. 

Setting it back in the back, Richie turned the car over and pulled out of his parking space. 

He could tell it was going to be a good day already. 

And call that stupidly optimistic of him, but Richie was certain that it would be a great day ahead. 

The drive to the office was slow, but that was mainly due to the high amount of traffic. Richie was half-afraid that he was going to get stuck in a traffic jam, and nearly did, too, if not for a few helpful police officers. The radio was on some sort of hard rock station, but Richie was barely paying attention to it, his mind elsewhere. 

Richie was thinking about Jon. 

This wasn't so unusual, since Jon was the focus of a lot of Richie's thoughts, but the content of such thoughts was what was concerning Richie. 

Richie's work day passed slowly, and as the sun began to set beyond the mountains and horizon, he exited the office. Nothing particularly eventful had happened over the course of the day, but Jenny had been giving him odd looks throughout the day. Richie had almost been convinced that something had been on his face, but a quick bathroom check had disproved this theory. 

"What's wrong?" Richie had asked, but Jenny had only shrugged and turned away without giving an answer. 

And now, as the sun rapidly disappeared into a sea of colors, Richie drove to the store, frowning into the distance. He really didn't need Jenny to go all sideways on him, not right now, as his world was going all crazy like it was. 

But as he roamed the diary aisle of the store, Richie supposed that she was just thinking about her own personal life and drifting off in her own head. 

Richie gathered everything he needed, paid, and then drove back home. 

It wasn't worth getting all worked up over, anyways. It didn't matter, not in this whole mess of things, and so Richie forgot about it as quickly as he'd began to think about it, and after a short struggle, managed to get all of the groceries and the painting into the apartment. 

He set down the groceries on the floor of the kitchen, put the painting on the counter, and set upon getting himself something to eat. Richie hadn't eaten since the toast that morning, and he was absolutely starving. After a moment of searching through his cupboards, Richie settled upon soup, and as he waited for it to heat up on the stove, he checked his phone. 

Two and a half hours ago, Richie had received a message, but hadn't checked what the content of the message had been. He was confused upon seeing that it was an unfamiliar number, but then his confusion melted away, and was replaced by calm. It was just a text from David, saying - 'Tico says you're welcome for the painting'. 

Richie laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. He had forgotten that David was in his contacts. 

Speaking of which....

He went to his recent calls, scrolled down, and found Jon's number. Richie added it to his phone under the name - 'Jon Bongiovi' and then set his phone back on the counter so he could get his soup. 

Two and a half hours later, Richie had washed his bowl, texted his mother, and then took a long shower. 

Tilting his head up toward the spray, Richie shut his eyes tightly and felt the world seep away, replaced by the knowledge that his troubles would still be there the next day, but, for now, they would wait. Richie washed himself quickly, got out of the shower, and dressed. 

Richie debated about maybe reading for awhile, but then remembered that he still needed to meet up with Jon early the next morning, and then go to work, so he just decided on going to bed. It wasn't like he had anything new to read, anyways. 

But then Richie remembered the dreams. 

He paused, suddenly feeling very cold and somewhat afraid of what was awaiting for him in his dreams. Richie reassured himself that he and Jon's friendship seemed to be in better place, and maybe that would seep into his dreams. 

Richie hoped so, at least. He couldn't take another dream like the previous ones. 

-\\-

_And now Richie was in a small, cluttered room, laying on an uncomfortable bed._

_He breathed in deeply, splayed his hands, and tried to gather his thoughts that were now running rampant. "Where am I?" Richie asked into the cold, thin air, but it was a useless question._

_Jon was sitting beside him, smoking lazily and writing down in his notebook. "We're at home." He said, like it was a simple answer that needn't to have been said._

_Well, that was glaringly obvious, wasn't it? A small part of Richie wanted to burst out laughing, though he wasn't completely sure why. He shifted, and stared up at the ceiling. "But why?" He asked, only then realizing that he was naked, completely and totally._

_Richie lunged up so fast that it made his head spin, leaned toward, and grabbed the blanket, pulling it up and over his naked legs and most of his torso. Usually, such a thing wouldn't bother Richie, but this was a dream, and the man beside him wasn't exactly a good person to be naked besides._

_Jon smiled around his cigarette, looking down at his notebook again. "Shocking." He drawled slowly, like a lone cowboy in the unforgiving desert._

_There was something different about Jon this time, and though it took Richie a moment to get used to seeing him so young again, that wasn't the problem. He could hear traffic outside, honking, and it was crazy, really, how lifelike these dreams were._

_"I don't-" Richie paused, moving his gaze to the door. It was open, and swaying slightly, as if somebody was pushing it and then pulling it back again, but there was nobody there._

_Dreams were such strange things._

_Jon motioned vaguely into the air with his pencil. "Dreams, dreams, dreams. Why can't you just appreciate me as I am and stop worrying about such dumb things?"_

_Struck into silence, Richie frowned. "You're not Jon. You never will be my Jon."_

_"Just pinch yourself, Rich. It'll get you out of this dream, if you're so evidently desperate." Jon said._

_And that was the truth, except Richie didn't want to leave, not yet._

_Because, although this wasn't Jon, it still looked like him, and as much as Richie tried to deny it, Jon was handsome, and the sight of his body, pale and tangled amongst the sheets, was like a rush of pure adrenaline made its way throughout his whole body, and Richie cleared his throat, suddenly feeling very, very hot._

_Jon grinned, and stretched, exposing his taut body as the sheet fell away partially to expose one of his thighs._

_"This is wrong." Richie said to himself, lies on his tongue. "You're a dream." He stared hopelessly at the body next to him._

_"And then why would it feel so right?" Jon said, smirking._

_Richie didn't care._

_All he wanted at that moment was some sort of contact, and so he shuffled closer so that he could press close against Jon._

_"I miss you." Richie whispered against Jon's bony shoulder._

_-\\-_

Richie didn't want to face the world. 

And so he lay there, the feeling of Jon's body slowly disappearing. 

"I miss you." Richie whispered into the cold air. 


	29. Holding You In My Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest in peace Tony Lewis, you were an underappreciated soul who was devoted to his fans and band. You will be missed.

Richie almost didn't leave bed. 

He was tired, and the memory of the dream still remained in his head, a lingering touch, whispers like the wind. But no matter how long he lay there, trying to regain the sleep that drifted just beyond reach, Richie could not bring himself to fall asleep again. Maybe his subconscious didn't want to endure another dream, or maybe it was just because Richie was already too awake to regain sleep, but he stood up, and decided to start his day. 

Turning on the shower, Richie stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself and wondering is the exhaustion was evident on his face. But the only thing that could be discerned was a general weariness. The memories of the day before were rushing in like a tidal wave, and Richie remembered how, for the first time in a long while, Jon hadn't seemed like an anxious, depressed mess. 

The thought made Richie smile, knowing that they were getting somewhere, even if it was slowly and by foot. 

But with that happiness came worry - because Jon was still hiding something. 

Richie undressed, took a quick shower just to look mildly presentable, and then got out. It was a warm, sunny day outside, and Richie decided to take that as a good thing, hoping that his next visit would end as hopefully as the last one. But as he stood in front of the mirror, combing his hair, Richie realized something, and it made his heart drop. 

' _I'm trying to look good for Jon.'_ Richie thought, comb in hand, and he started laughing, maybe shocked by the admission, or maybe just amused by how suddenly things were changing. 

It reminded him of Cher, and how towards the end, neither of them had made an effort for each other, physically or mentally. That was why the relationship had ended, because they hadn't truly love each other, not really. Richie didn't like being alone, and Cher liked having somebody to say she was beautiful. 

Shaking his head at those thoughts, Richie set the comb down, brushed his teeth, and then finished getting dressed. He spent more time than usual trying to choose a shirt, and then sat down on the couch with his shoes sitting on the floor and his phone sitting on his knee. Richie scrolled through his recent text messages, which involved a few from his co-workers, one from his mother, and a wrong message from a bakery. 

Richie slipped on his shoes while responding to his mother and his co-workers, before informing the bakery that he was the wrong guy. But despite his present actions, Richie's mind kept wandering, and kept returning to the same exact person who had been serving as the main source for his troubles, tribulations, and truths. 

They'd made progress, more than Richie had ever expected, but there was something thrumming just below the surface that made his heart beat faster and head begin to spin. Richie didn't know what to make of such feelings, but they were familiar, and that scared him. 

But it was hardly the most terrifying thing that'd been going on lately. 

Richie made himself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table with his laptop as he drank it. He was beginning to get anxiety, and wasn't hungry as a result, leaving him to stew in contemplative silence as he scrolled the internet with no discernable goal. 

And that made him remember something. 

Richie drained the rest of his coffee, stood up, and walked back over to the kitchen, where the bag from yesterday sat. He reached into it and pulled out the painting, looking at it for a moment, and smiling. Richie thought it was beautiful, but didn't quite know where to put it. 

' _Above the couch?'_ Richie grabbed a thumbtack from the junk drawer, searched for and found a hammer, and then slipped off his shoes, standing on the couch cushions as he hammered the nail into the wall, glad that he was in the last apartment of the row, because if he wasn't, then his neighbor would've been an angry person. 

Stepping back, Richie admired the painting, and nodded to himself, pleased, before putting his shoes back on. He grabbed his coffee mug, washed it out, and then grabbed his wallet and keys. 

Before Richie could walk out the door, somebody knocked on it. 

Startled, Richie looked up and frowned, confused as to who would be wanting to see him. His first assumption was David, but there was no reason for the other man to be wanting or needing to see him. But then Richie unlocked the door, and swung it open, and looked straight into hesitant blue eyes. 

"Why are you here?" Richie asked, his voice sounding oddly high-pitched, evidently affected by his shock. 

Jon frowned deeply, and he took a step back. "I wanted to make an effort." He said, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. 

Cursing himself mentally, Richie hurried to rectify his mistake. "No, don't be like that. I just was surprised, that's all." He said, opening the door a little wider. "I didn't expect you to come over." 

"Well, here I am." Jon was avoiding eye contact again. 

Richie stepped aside and motioned for Jon to come in, which he did, albeit slowly and with the distinct suspicion and weariness that seemed to be a permanent fixture. Jon was, as usual, dressed in clothes made for weather that was much colder than the actual temperature, complete with a heavy wool coat. Richie realized that his were lingering, and forced his eyes away back towards the wall. 

' _God, what's wrong with me?'_ Richie thought, irritated by himself. 

Jon walked inside, and Richie closed the door, locking it after a moment's hesitation. They were close together, now, and even though they were far from being trapped in the foyer, there was a distinct feeling that implied such a thing that wasn't even real. 

"Nice apartment." Jon said. 

Richie forced himself away from his thoughts. "Really? Thank you. It's not quite fully decorated yet, but I'm trying." In truth, Richie hadn't thought much about finishing unpacking, but Jon didn't need to know that. 

The differences of the two men became clearly apparent, then, and Richie realized it as he observed his own apartment. Aside from what had clearly been a breakdown, Jon's apartment had almost been superficially clean and devoid of dust. Meanwhile, Richie was know realizing that besides the kitchen, he hadn't really put much into cleaning. 

In Richie's defense, he had been busy with other things. 

A moment of silence passed by. "Would you like me to take your coat?" Richie asked, and then he nearly smacked himself, because what was he, a bell boy?

Jon shook his head. "No, thanks." He said. 

"Okay." Richie sighed. He could feel the coldness again. "Let's go into the living room then, so we can can down." He said, and Jon nodded in agreement. They walked into the living room, and Jon sat down on the edge of the couch. 

Richie sat down on the other end. "So, how do you feel about yesterday?" He asked, sensing some tension and wanting to alleviate it. But there was also an undercurrent of awkwardness that stemmed from the sudden change in locations, or maybe just because Jon wasn't so angry anymore, and didn't know what to do with himself now 

Jon shrugged. "I - well, I liked it." He paused, and seem to consider something that had been bouncing around in his mind for awhile. "I'm glad that it happened." 

Considering the possibilities of answers that could've been used instead, Richie was glad for that. He didn't quite know what to do or how to act around Jon at that moment, but couldn't figure out why. Richie took a deep breathe at the sudden rise of _something_ in his chest that made his heart hurt. "It felt nice to get some of our feelings out there in the open." He said. 

"I wanted to ask you something." Richie continued, searching for any signs of emotion on Jon's face, but getting nothing. He hated it, and just wanted some sign that his advances were received well. "What did you do, after I left?" He asked. 

Jon narrowed his eyes. "Why do you want to know?" He asked, and shifted away, like he was about to run away. 

"Because." Richie said, and struggled for a moment with his motive. "I need to know, please, Jonny." He leaned toward to make up for the distance, and tried to catch Jon's eyes to further persuade the younger man. Maybe it was unfair, but deep within Richie's mind, he needed to know, otherwise it would bother him forever. 

"It's none of your business." Jon said flatly. "It wasn't any of Janie's business, either, so don't worry about that." He looked up at the painting, and smirked rather amusedly. "Tico painted you one, too, huh?" He said. 

Richie looked at the painting. "Yeah." He replied with a nod, his gaze lingering on the hues of dark browns and greens before he returned it to Jon. "What are you hiding from me? What the hell were you hiding from Janie?" 

The idea of something being hidden from him wasn't new, but what was so bad about that time in Jon's life that he had hid it from Janie who, by all means, wasn't in much of a position to judge anybody? Richie frowned and took his chances by reaching out, hoping for so many things. 

Richie grasped Jon's good hand, but the younger man tried to pull away at that moment, startled by the touch, or perhaps by whom it was coming from. 

Either way, Richie held on tight. "Jon, I'm not about to judge you for something that you did. God knows that I'm not exactly the most stable person in the whole world." Richie smoothed his thumb over the back of Jon's hand, hoping that maybe the touch would lure him in, reassure him of what remained. 

"Liar." Jon hissed, pulling away. "They always judge. They always - let the fuck go of me, Richie!" 

Richie stood up in order to get a better grip, desperate not to let go, not again. "I won't. I swear, Jon, I swear on everything." He grabbed onto Jon's coat and held on tight, feeling the anxiety, the fear, the misery. Jon was like a snared rabbit who was about to get killed by the ruthless hunter, except Richie's job to try and make amends, not make things worse. 

Jon grit his teeth. "Liar!" He repeated, trying to move away, but Richie was too strong, and was determined not to let go. "You're going to hate me! Freak, that's what I've been for years! Depressed fucking freak!" Jon stopped fighting, but there was a fire ablaze in his mind, and it was burning strong. 

"I won't! I swear, for - calm down." Richie got a good grip on Jon and pulled him closer. "Calm down. Breathe." He said, feeling Jon's heart as it beat rapidly against his chest, feeling how hard he was breathing. The apartment fell silent, but the whispers still remained, but the heartache and anger still held strong against the fierce torrents. 

Outside of the apartment, it had started to rain, and drops of rain were pattering against the window. It seemed to be indicitive of the fight happening within the confines of four walls, and Richie knew it. "Just tell me!" He said, voice rising like lava from within a volcano. "Goddamnit, Jon, why are you bring so hard? This isn't you! This isn't the man I knew." 

Jon was starting to cry, and he looked down at his shoes, shoulders shaking pitifully. "Fuck you." Jon sobbed, trying to get away yet again, if not to run then to at least himself. But Richie wouldn't let go, because he knew if he would, if he let go, then Jon was gone. 

This was their test. 

Years ago, they first met at a park, with Richie trying to earn extra money for this car by playing guitar. Jon had stumbled upon him, and in that single moment, when Richie had looked up and saw those magnificent blue eyes for the first time, they were connected, not only physically, but mentally. 

The rope that tied them together had frayed and thinned and aged, but it hadn't broken, and it was still keeping them close, no matter how much time passed. 

Richie pulled Jon closer, engulfing the other man into a tight hug, giving affection and love, trying to get the point across through the only say that seemed completely, truly right. 

_I won't ever leave you again, but I need you to trust me. Can you trust me, Jon?_

Jon remained stiff and frozen, like a lifeless statue, shocked by the arms that were wrapped around his back and holding him close. Richie just held on tighter, vowing to not let go. 

As if the tighter hold had reassured him of something, Jon let whatever was holding him back go, and he let out a sob, wrapping his arms around Richie and hugging him close. He was holding on for dear life, as if he was afraid that Richie would slip past his fingers like sand. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Jon was breathless, gasping for air and talking at the same time. "I didn't know what to do - you were gone and what was the point? What was the point?" He buried his face against Richie's neck, shaking compulsively. 

Richie bit his lip, unsure if there was anything left to say, but knowing that talking wasn't right. So, he did what made sense, and kissed Jon's cheek, tasting the salty tears on his lips, and heard the rain as it poured down with renewed fervor.

For a moment, Jon seemed to take in the kiss, chaste and nervous as it was, and something fearful sparked in his eyes and came to life. His grip on Richie tightened significantly, almost as if he was craving the touch as the same time he wanted to reject it. "You'll regret this." He said, and the certainty in his voice was startling. 

Richie shook his head. "No, I won't." He said firmly, and he leaned in, capturing Jon's lips with his own. 


	30. Smiles Of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter. 
> 
> Thank you to everybody who clicked on this story - to everybody who gave me kudos, to everybody to gave me a comment. 
> 
> I'm struggling, admittedly. My mental health has taken a downward spiral, and I'm swamped with school, because online learning sucks. 
> 
> I am working on the next installment of this series, so do not fear - this is far from the end.  
> And without further ado, let's get reading.

Richie wasn't quite sure why he did it, or how he managed to do it without Jon attempting murder in the first degree, but he did, and it ended up being the best decision he had ever made. 

For a single moment in time, Jon seemed like he was about to run, but, in the end, there was no response from him besides a reciprocation for the kiss and the feeling of his fingers tightening their grip on Richie's shirt. It would get wrinkled, but that was hardly important.

It felt as if the whole world had stopped, froze, just for the kiss, just for them, and Richie was appreciative for that, because he hardly could stop and check the time when there was a man in his arms and lips pressed against his own. Jon was the first to pull away, and he looked flushed, as if he was embarrassed. 

Richie brushed aside some of Jon's hair away from his face. "You didn't expect that, huh?" Richie said quietly, loathing to break the shocked silence, but feeling like he needed to, anyways. 

There was something forbidden about those words, a million words in a single moment. 

Jon raised one of his hands up and placed it on the side of Richie's face. "You say the dumbest shit." Jon said plainly, and Richie smiled, because _this_ felt good, it felt natural, and after so much time having passed, it was a miracle that they could just bounce back like that. 

"You caught me." Richie grasped Jon's hand and pressed it against his heart, which was beating quite fast. "Are you okay?" He asked. 

_Jon was asleep, but judging by his furrowed eyebrows, it was far from peaceful._

_Like a criminal in the night, Richie was careful, and as he slipped out of bed, every creak made him wince and every quiet thump was enough to make Richie want to bang his head against the wall in frustration. He packed his bag quickly, loathing to stretch his luck, but just as the sun was beginning to creep over the horizon, Jon was still asleep._

_It made Richie want to cry, seeing Jon so unknowing as to what would come, but it was better for this to happen than for the inevitable to spring up in a few years._

_Setting his suitcase down on the floor, Richie rounded the bed, and looked down at the sleeping man, wondering if it was too late._

_Carefully bending down, Richie brushed aside messy hair, and kissed Jon one last time, knowing that in the morning, Jon would be confused and wondering what had happened, and Richie would be long gone._

Jon shook his head, tightening his grip on Richie, as if it would kill if he could let go, a mingled desperation and fear clear in his face. "No." He said slowly. "But I don't think either of us are." 

Richie had to admit that Jon had a point. "Yeah." He agreed with a laugh. "But I'm talking about - if I ask what happened again, are you going to try and run?" It was a question that felt as old as time, laced with uncertainty and sadness. Richie felt like he'd been dropped into the sea and forced to swim amongst the sharks, and it was starting to scare him to no end. 

For a moment, it didn't appear like Jon was going to answer, but then he shifted in the embrace, and took a deep, shivering breathe. "You're going to hate me." He finally said. 

_Jon rolled over in his sleep and grasped for somebody to hold onto, caught in the throes of a horrific dream, but as soon as his fingers hit an empty, cold bed, he was startled awake._

_"Richie?" Jon said, remarkably alert, slipping out of bed and hurrying into the bathroom, but the man that he sought was not there._

_Or in the kitchen._

_Or in the living room._

_And then Jon ran back into the bedroom and tossed open the drawers, looked into the closet, searching for anything, but he saw that the clothes he had grown used to seeing over the last few years were gone._

_"Richie." Jon breathed out, looking at the bottom of the closet for a suitcase that wasn't there anymore. "Richie, Richie. Fuck!" Jon hit the wall with his hand, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knuckles as he walked back into the bedroom, glanced at the telephone, and then sat down on the bed, unable to breathe._

"Why would I hate you?" Richie asked, feeling concerned as only a pressed silence answered his question. He didn't know why he was so badly curious to find out what Jon did after Richie left, but what Jon had said previously was only coming back to haunt Richie, who felt his grip on the younger man tighten without meaning. 

_Joan Sambora frowned deeply. "What happened, sweetheart?" She asked again, standing in the threshold as her son angrily tossed clothes back into his drawers without a single word being given. "You're never this mad." Joan glanced behind her as Adam Sambora joined the mix, resting his hand on his wife's shoulder as they watched their son._

_Richie threw another pair of pants, but they missed their mark and fell to the ground with a barely audible thump. "Jon and I are through." He said. "We argue too much, and it's just - it's so stressful." After a lengthy pause, Richie added - "It was both our faults, mom. I talk too much, he doesn't talk enough, that sort of thing. Stupid things."_

Jon's voice was muffled because he was pressing his face against Richie's shoulder. "That's what you meant, wasn't it? When you didn't say 'I Love You' back." He laughed weakly, and it sounded strangled with tears. "That's what they all mean secretly, but people lie." 

_Pacing the apartment was beginning to make Jon feel dizzy, but he had nothing else to do because people weren't answering his calls and he was worried sick and nothing made sense anymore, because Richie was gone, gone, and he'd been gone for a week and -_

_He wasn't coming back._

_Jon felt sick and concerned at the same time, scared for the only man he had ever let himself love romantically, and it made him feel that much worse._

"What are you going on about?" Richie asked, but no answer came - not physically, at least. 

_"I love you." Jon said, his voice soft and tentative as he sat in bed with the blankets bunched up around him, looking oddly fearful. He was nervous about the answer that would come, now more than ever, because of their argument._

_And Richie just stayed quiet as he slipped into a pair of pajama pants._

Jon didn't want to remember, but he knew that Richie needed to recall the memories from that awful night and the following time. 

_There was a pretty woman on Richie's arm - her name was Emma, and she seemed to light up a room whenever she smiled._

_Jon felt his face heat up in shame, and he watched from the safety of his car as the sun began to set and Richie leaned in and kissed Emma on her cheek._

_He had drove over there just to make sure that this was what was going to happen, and that everything was truly over, and by all means - it was. Jon bit his hand to hold back his sobs as he watched his life fall apart with a simple kiss, knowing that, in the end, at least Richie was happy. And Jon could live with this, if only for that fact._

_Jon needed for Richie to be happy._

The rain was pouring down harder now, and it was making it tough to concentrate, especially when thunder boomed and lightning crackled. Outside, people were running for warmth and safety as the soft trickle became a full out thunderstorm. 

It was oddly appropriate for the event that was going on inside the apartment at that exact moment. 

_Richie knew that he needed to stop making his mother worry so incessantly, so he did what made sense and gave this girl a try._

_Truth be told, Emma was ugly and hateful and boring, and Richie didn't feel anything for this girl, but his mother was friends with her mother and it was, by all means, the circle of life._

_But as he kissed her cheek, not able to bring himself for anything more, Richie couldn't help but feel a sense of loss, and a sense of horrible loneliness, knowing that the one person who he had truly loved was gone, and had probably moved on by now. Richie could stomach this kiss and this girl and whatever may come next, if only for that reason._

_Richie needed for Jon to be happy._

"What happened?" Richie urged, raising his hands to grasp at Jon's arms so that they could see eye to eye. He could feel the worry as it creeped up his spine and curled around it like a snake, and bit his tongue as the memories ran through his mind. 

He could remember Emma, and how repulsed he had been by her. He could remember looking up and seeing a familiar blue Volkswagen, but then Emma had pulled his face down again and by the time he had been able to get back up for air, the car was gone. 

Emma hadn't lasted long, anyways. 

"I told you - you'll hate me if I say it." Jon said, anxiously playing with the sleeves of his coat and pulling them down. 

Richie rolled his eyes, trying his best not to snap again out of pure frustration over how slow the whole process was. But he was trying, and saying something in anger would only startle Jon and make him shut up like a clam again. "I won't hate you, okay? Trust me on this." 

"How am I supposed to trust you?" Jon asked, looking down at the floor, leaning away from Richie, who didn't have an answer and could only sigh, not knowing how to quite make this better. 

Richie pulled Jon a little closer. "I have my heart invested in this too, y'know." He said, and the other man tensed, as if the words had stuck a nerve with him. 

For the next few moments, a strange, contemplative silence fell over them like a thick blanket, suffocating them, forbidding them to speak a little single word. 

"It was a -" Jon paused, his fingers moving to grasp around his one of his wrists tightly. "A year after you left. I got really, really bad, because at first I just, I dunno, blocked it all away and focused on my work but then I got laid off and I had nothing to do so it hit me hard." Jon kissed Richie on the cheek before moving away from the embrace and back towards the couch, where he set down, eyes downcast and face neutral. 

Richie followed suit. "So you -?" He said slowly, letting the unfinished sentence lay in the air, ready to fill in the blanks.

" _So."_ Jon shifted, obviously uncomfortable with what he was being forced to do. "I drew myself a bath, got in, and slit my fucking wrists." 

The words sounded dull, empty, useless. 

Richie felt his blood run cold, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. "Oh, jeez." He moaned, burying his face in his hands, unable to look up, suddenly feeling very sick at the mental image that presented itself with the words. It shouldn't have ever happened, except it did, and now they were both facing the consequences. 

"Don't worry." Jon said, sounding untroubled. "It wasn't your fault." 

Except it was. 

If Richie hadn't left, then Jon wouldn't have found it suitable to slit his wrists and then act like it didn't matter at all. 

Jon looked up, his eyebrows furrowed deeply in wonder. "Do you have work today?" He asked, and Richie felt his shock worsen unpleasantly. 

' _Fuck, fuck FUCK.'_ Richie stood up, suddenly in a panic as he looked at the clock and realized that he was very, very late. He grabbed his phone and keys hurriedly, turning around in a circle like a chicken with his head cut off, unable to think as he prayed that it would be seen as just a very bad mistake. But law couldn't wait, could it? And mistakes couldn't be tolerated. 

Jon was standing by the door, holding it open and motioning vaguely out toward the hall. His eyebrows were raised in question, as if silently asking Richie if he was going to go or not. 

Richie practically sprinted through the door, his hands shaking as he tried to find the correct key so that he could lock the door. Finally, he found the right one, and he looked at Jon, who wordlessly handed him his jacket. 

"Okay. Um - I gotta go. I forgot about work." Richie waited for Jon to nod. "Is it okay if I visit you when I get home?" He asked. 

Jon shrugged. "Yeah." He said, playing with his sleeves again, seemingly unable to stop with the compulsive actions. 

But there was something off about the response, and Richie grabbed Jon by his upper arm, keeping him in place. 

"Will you be there when I get back?" Richie asked, his mind racing with the latest revelations in this crazy situation that had begun to nearly feel normal. 

Jon narrowed his eyes. "What do you think?" 

And Richie hated it when people answered questions with questions, but he was in a hurry and there was no time to get down to the specifics, so he just gave one last meaningful look to Jon before he took off down the hall, praying that the firm would understand. 

Otherwise, Richie would just be in a worse place than he had started. 

_The water had been running for longer than needed, and as Jon slowly lowered himself into the bathtub, some of the liquid sloshed over the side, spilling onto the floor._

_Jon was fully clothed, with the razor perched between the edges of his fingertips, glinting ominously in the faint light. The water was a shock at first, but as Jon shifted around, the chill began to fade. It wouldn't last long, anyways, so he didn't particularly worry about it._

_The razor felt dangerous, and for a moment, Jon had the sense to feel scared._

_"Breathe." He whispered to himself when he realized that his hands were shaking out of fright. There was enough time to just toss the razor aside, but Jon was too deep in, now. He had made his bed, and now he had to lie in it._

_There was no stopping._

_Jon had left his note in the kitchen, pinned onto the fridge by a magnet, his last words, permanently written in ink on thin paper. He had apologized to his parents, his brothers, but it wouldn't make a difference. In the haze of sorrow, Jon didn't recognize that he would be missed. All he knew was that he was in pain, and that there was only one way out._

_Slowly, Jon rolled up his sodden sleeves, and stared at the pale, unbroken skin underneath. A part of him was suddenly, ferociously afraid, and yet, Jon didn't stop._

_He couldn't stop._

_Jon had also written a note for Richie, but he'd hidden it within his nightstand, weary of seeing it, and also weary of it being seen. Maybe it would never be discovered, and a part of Jon hoped for that._

_The last words in Richie's letter were ones of love. 'I'm sorry for not being what you needed. I love you so much.'_

_He took a deep, shuddering breathe, and with those last thoughts running through his mind, Jon lowered the razor and dragged it quickly over his wrist and - God! That hurt, much more than Jon had thought, and he gasped out a weak cry, dropping the bloodied razor into the water._

_Jon stared as the skin broke apart, and blood split onto the bathtub, into the water, and down, down, down onto the floor. It hurt like a son of a bitch and he was almost inclined to scream, except he couldn't otherwise that old lady from downstairs would be curious, and he bit down hard enough on his hand to draw even more blood, if only to distract him from the cut._

_It wasn't even that deep - but yet, Jon was already feeling dizzy._

_Despite this, Jon reached back into the bathtub, submerging half of his upper body into the freezing water and, after a moment of searching, his fingers found the razor and he came back up, watching as the clear liquid turned into crimson red._

_It looked like a goddamn crime scene._

_Jon had to force himself to lift his other arm and, with the razor in hand, cut his wrist much deeper than the last one, forcing himself to stay still until he hit something that was quite hard. "Oh, fuck!" Jon moaned, watching as blood spilt, trailing down his arm and sideways across his wrist. "Fuck." He grit his teeth against the pain._

_Whether it be on purpose or accident (or, hell, maybe both) Jon had cut down to the bone, and he could see a shocking, pearly white peaking out from the skin that'd once protected it. The blood was a bright, shocking red, and it exited the wound much more quickly than it did before._

_Somewhere in Jon's mind, he recognized those as signs that he'd cut through an artery._

_But it didn't matter._

_Because it killed all the same._

_Jon let the razor fall._

_He was dizzy and nauseous, and the blood spurting from his deeper wound didn't help in the least._

_Black spots danced in front of his vision, and Jon closed his eyes, letting his head fall back onto the back of the bathtub._

_Unconsciousness overtook him soon afterwards._

Richie got in his car, shutting the door behind him as he tossed his jacket onto the passenger seat. He was exhausted, but the day was far from over. 

Luckily, all that happened was a few stern words. Richie would usually be irritated that all he'd gotten was a slap on the wrist, but in that moment, he was just relieved. 

The sky was a multicolored mess of orange and pink and purple, and the sun was just beginning to set, casting a beautiful glow upon the world. Richie wished that he could just stay there in quiet peace and enjoy the beauty, but he couldn't, because there were things that needed to be said and people that had yet to find hope after their long trek in the darkness. 

A part of Richie is terrified of what he was going to come home to find. 

The latest revelation from Jon had rocked his world, figuratively and literally, and it made sense, which was terrible, because it shouldn't have made sense, except there was no going back. 

Richie thought back, digging into the deepest, darkest depths of his frantic mind to capture his memories. He could remember having long conversations with Jon on the roof and laughing until he was out of breathe. Richie could remember kissing the younger man and tasting smoke and whiskey. It had been heaven, but they were firs and gasoline, and them combined was hell. 

The drive back to the building took longer than usual, though that might've just been a simple illusion. Richie got out of the car and slammed the door shut behind him, walking quickly across the parking lot and into the warmth of the building. 

Richie debated with himself about whether or not he should go back to his apartment or just go straight to Jon. 

' _What if he did something stupid?'_

_'What if he's bleeding out right now?'_

Worry began to weigh down atop Richie's shoulders, dragging him down and giving him a thick sense of dread. He suddenly felt like crying. God, wouldn't that be an ending fitting of Shakespeare? Like some weird, twisted version of Romeo and Juliet, except it'd be no joke. 

Thinking back to their conversation earlier, Richie cursed himself for leaving. 

The elevator opened, and Nikki emerged from the depths, looking very nervous and rather pale. Richie suddenly realized how long it'd been since he saw the other man, but knew that he couldn't stand by idly and chat. 

Oh, how Richie missed normalcy. 

"Hey." Nikki said, looking up from his phone. 

Richie smiled. "Hi. How've you been?" He asked, remembering what David had said a few weeks before about how he and Alec had apparently made up. But he hadn't seen Nikki in a long while, and hadn't really gotten the chance to talk about it. 

And Richie still didn't have a chance. 

"Uh - depends on what you mean by that." Nikki smiled weakly, and he raised his left hand, wriggling his finger to show off a shiny golden wedding band. The sigh of it was enough to make Richie pause, staring at the piece of jewelery like he'd never seen such a thing before. 

Nikki stuffed his hand back inside his jacket, as if embarrassed. "Tommy and I are engaged." He said softly. 

Richie was silent for a long minute, unsure of what to say, his mind hurrying to catch up with the events. 

And then he grinned. 

"Congratulations, man!" He said, glad for some happy news in light of the whole mess that was this situation. "I'm happy for you, Nikki."

"Thanks." Nikki said, smiling as he looked down at the ground. 

Richie didn't know either of the two men very well in any sense of the word, but the news was enough to lift some of the anxiety off of his chest. He was glad that at least some of the darkness couldn't reach other people, and that despite what seemed like a halt in the world, that at least two people in his life could keep moving. 

They would be happy with each other, Richie knew. He saw how Nikki and Tommy looked at each other. 

' _But could that ever happen with Jon and I?'_

It didn't matter, because Jon was still mourning and Richie didn't want to hurt him further, no matter what these feelings in his mind were saying, _wanting._

"Oh!" Nikki snapped his fingers just as he was about to walk away, turning around on the heel of his boot. "I almost forgot. Jon left, so he told me to tell you to not go up and see him. One of his brothers had a kid, and Jon went to Newark to go see him." 

Richie had to pause and stare at him for a moment before the words fully sunk in and he realized what that meant. Jon wasn't in town, and probably wouldn't be for the rest of the day, maybe longer. 

"He said that he'll be back tomorrow." Nikki elaborated further. 

Richie nodded. "Okay." He began to walk towards the elevator, but Nikki stopped him from going further by placing his hand out and keeping him still. Richie obediently looked at the other man, staring into bright green eyes that seemed to see everything,hear everything, but perhaps not quite know everything. 

Nikki paused for a moment, and then moved back. "This isn't none of my business, but - What's going on between you and Jon?" He asked, sounding intensely curious. "Everybody around here has noticed it. Yesterday, Jon actually laughed at some stupid joke that Tommy made. He usually doesn't do that." 

For a moment, Richie stared at him, unsure and worried, debating with himself over what to say. He didn't want to divulge too much, but at the same time, he had never been a spectacular liar, and the last thing Richie needed was to have somebody angry with him over a lie, especially at that moment. 

But Nikki was looking at him with something akin to concern, and if was hard to resist him, it really was. 

' _Godamnit it.'_ Richie thought. 

Nikki shook his head suddenly. "You know what? That's none of my business. I don't know why I asked." He looked away, but not quickly enough, and Richie could see his smile. "Ah, whatever you're doing just keep doin' it, okay?" 

_Richie was sitting on a park, strumming his guitar to the tune of a nameless lullaby that his mother had sang to him back when he was a child. It was snowing quite heavily, and there was a bitter chill in the air, but that seemed to perfect the moment._

_There was the sound of boots crunching over snow, and Richie looked up, hoping that somebody would toss a quarter or two into his change cup. He needed the extra money - not desperately, but rather earnestly._

_A younger man was standing in front of him, one of his eyebrows raised in silent question._

_"Can I join you?" He asked._

_And Richie couldn't find it within himself to say no._

The apartment felt lonely. 

Richie knew that he was beginning to suffer from the effects of not being around people, that this was his slow descent into loneliness. He was a people person who had friends, sure, but found himself alone most of the time. There was nothing much to do, because, as Richie found out the hard way, he hadn't made a plan for anything else. 

So he slipped into a pair of pajamas, shedding his suit like it was a second skin, tossing his shoes aside before laying down in bed with his phone after eating a quick dinner. 

His mother had texted him, something about one of the ladies that she had become friends with. Mrs. Sambora, evidently, was convinced that her friend was having am affair, and was going to catch her in the act. 

Richie laughed to himself, shaking his head as he replied with something noncommital. 

But soon his eyes became heavy, and his mind grew weary, and he fell asleep soon enough, setting his phone down on his chest as he fell into a deep, blissful sleep. 

-\\- 

_This one was different._

_Immensely so, in fact, and Richie could sense it._

_He was back in the apartment that Jon and Janie had lived in, standing inside of a dark room that smelt strongly of rot and decay. Richie gagged at the smell, and smacked his hand over his mouth and nose as the sickly sweet smell invaded his nose._

_Judging by the furniture, Richie was in a room that served as an office. A computer was set up on a desk, and a rickety bookcase was near the corner. It was the same bookcase that Jon had in his current apartment, and the books were the same, too._

_However, this was just a dream, and nothing could be said as gospel._

_Richie forced himself to stand up, still covering his mouth, weary of the smell that seemed to seep through the apartment. It was dark, but the light shining in through the windows showed that it was dawn. Richie could see other buildings - apartments, by the looks of them, on the other side of the street, alongside a few shops._

_He walked toward the door, and swung it open, his foot outstretched in order to take a step toward -_

_But there was no ground._

_Only a void, black and never-ending._

_Screams echoed from the void, and Richie opened his mouth, about to yell as he pitched toward, fingers scrambling for a hold on the door that had suddenly disappeared. 'I'm about to die, I'm about DIE!!' Richie's thoughts were scrambled and panicked._

_But, just like that, Richie was pulled back._

_Richie fell backwards with a grunt, down onto a hard floor, and there was a familiar pair of legs standing beside him, and Richie looked up, not surprised to see two bright blue eyes staring down at him._

_"Hi." Richie said, rubbing his back, knowing that he was getting too old for such strenuous activities._

_Jon was frowning. "I didn't expect you to kiss so quickly." He began to walk away._

_"Yeah, well." Richie shrugged, and somehow managed to stand back up._

_It was at that moment that Richie realized that the room had changed, and drastically so. In fact, they were now in a bathroom. And Richie shut his eyes quickly, unwilling to see what lay beyond him, not wanting to stare at the sight._

_"Such a baby." Jon said in a tone of disapproval, clicking his tongue as he walked away, his shoes clicking on the tile._

_Richie wanted to yell - no, he wanted to scream, out at the top of his lungs until he couldn't anymore. He fell to his knees, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, stop it. I want it to stop. Get me out of here." He felt like crying._

_The bathroom was cold._

_And bright._

_But Jon was persistent, and once upon a time, Richie had loved that about him, but now he just wanted it to stop._

_"What am I doing here?" Richie asked._

_Jon crouched in front of him and grabbed his arms. "You must -"_

_-\\-_

Richie jumped awake, his heart beating rapidly against his chest. 

But, already, he was falling back asleep. 

Richie didn't want to go back to asleep, he was terrified of going back in that dream again - the dream with one Jon, dead in the bloodied bathtub, and the other talking like it was no big deal - but he was exhausted, and the darkness of the bedroom lulled him back to sleep. 

-\\- 

_They were alone._

_In bed._

_Together._

_Again._

_Richie raised his hands and dragged them through his hair._

_"Are you okay?" Jon asked, staring at him with thinly veiled concern._

_"No." Richie replied._

_Keen blue eyes seemed to examine every inch of Richie's body, and then flickered back up. "That's alright." Jon said. "We're all allowed not to not be okay sometimes."_

_Richie scowled. "You're not a damn psychiatrist, Jon."_

_"No." Jon agreed._

_The remainders of the last dream were still lingering in Richie's mind, flickers of rot and a single body in the bathtub. Richie gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, even though the image followed him into the darkness._

_Jon's fingers found their way toward Richie's shoulder, and his skin was shockingly cold._

_But it was comforting._

_Richie leaned into the touch. "I don't know what to do." He confessed. "I don't know how to help you. I don't know how to make you stop tensing whenever I touch you."_

_Jon hummed._

_"One minute, you hate me, and the next, you're crying." Richie continued, encouraged by the silence. "You say that you don't care about me, but there's something in your eyes that says otherwise."_

_"Isn't there always?" Jon said vaguely._

_It was at this point that Jon leaned down and gently, although eagerly, pressed his lips against Richie's own. The kiss was somehow wanting and needing all at the same time, and in the deepest corners of Richie's mind, he acknowledged this._

_Richie also acknowledged that his hands were reaching up, and pulling Jon's shirt off as the kiss grew more heated._

_-\\-\_

The phone was ringing, and Richie didn't know if that was the reason that he'd woken up or if it was something else, but he was awake now, and it didn't matter anymore. 

Reaching across the bed, Richie grabbed his phone, swiped it open, and accepted the call. 

It was bright outside - too bright. 

Thankfully, it was Saturday. 

"Hello?" Richie said, trying to gather his bearings, blinking as the light that was seeping in from beyond the curtains, which he'd neglected to close the night before, assaulted his eyes. 

It was incredibly unpleasant, and far from what Richie had been hoping for when he'd went to bed. 

"Hi." Jon said, his tone curt. "I'm sorry for yesterday. My sister-in-law wasn't supposed to give birth for another few weeks but, anyways." 

Richie sat up straight in bed. "Really? How's the baby?" He asked. 

"Healthy." Jon replied. 

The answer was short, and Richie took that as opportunity to think.

As Richie slipped out of bed and walked toward his dresser to get a pair of jeans on, deciding that he could forgo a shower, Richie could sense that something was wrong. 

Or maybe Richie was just so used to things being wrong, that he naturally assumed that something was wrong, because when did things ever go right? 

"Well, that's good." Richie said awkwardly, pulling on a pair of jeans. "It was shocking for Nikki to have to tell me that you weren't here yesterday." He said. 

"Mhmm." Jon hummed. "Sorry." 

"Yeah." Richie walked into his closet and hunted for a shirt. "Well, when are you gonna be back?" He asked.

"I _am_ back." Jon replied. 

Richie had to pause, startled by the response. He hadn't even brushed his teeth yet, but it was only in reserves, Richie figured - after all, he had slept in much later than intended. "Um, I need five minutes." Richie said, turning on the water so that he could begin some semblance of a clean-up routine, and make himself look somewhat presentable. 

With that thought, Richie ran his fingers through his hair. 

"Alright." Jon agreed. 

And then he hung up. 

Richie set the phone aside and began to brush his teeth, his mind full of half-formed thoughts that hadn't yet taken flight, unsure. 

_Things were tense between them._

_Jon was in the living room, writing on his notebook and occasionally reaching down to pluck the strings of his guitar before returning to his writing. Richie was in the kitchen, eating cereal and reading the newspaper without want._

_Last night's argument had been the worst yet, but somehow, they both knew that things were only just getting started._

_"It's crazy." Richie said, pouring a liberal amount of sugar into his Cheerios, and watching as the sugar clumped together when combined with the milk, creating a rather unpleasant, but ultimately delicious, add-on to his cereal._

_Jon looked up. "What?" He said._

_"I was saying that it's crazy, that we can go from happy to angry to upset to angry then back to happy, all in a span of five hours." Richie continued._

_"I don't think 'happy' is the proper word." Jon replied._

_Richie shrugged. "Well, it's better than nothing, right?"_

_An answer didn't come for an extended few minutes, and just as Richie was considering if he wanted to upend the bowl and drink the rest of the milk so that it didn't go to waste, a response came, carefully neutral but bordering on disaster._

_"I guess." Jon said._

Toothpaste and coffee definitely did not go together, a fact that Richie learned as he leaned against the wall of the elevator and waited patiently for it to reach the intended level. 

Richie was texting his mom, but his thoughts were far, far away, in a place that seemed dark and forbidden. A part of Richie didn't want to go retrieve them, but I knew that he couldn't just leave them. 

It was raining quite heavily again, and Richie could hear the raindrops as they hit the building. 

Finally, the doors opened. 

It suddenly struck Richie how empty the building seemed to be. 

Besides Tico, David, Alec, Nikki and Tommy, nobody else seemed to live there. 

Of course, there _were_ people. Richie had the evidence - Jon had taken pictures at the birthday party, and there had been people that he probably wouldn't have known otherwise if not for them living at the same place that he did, but Richie had yet to see another soul besides the people who passed by and exchanged a few polite words with him. 

Or, maybe, Richie had been too busy to take it all in. 

Richie raised his hand and knocked on the door. 

Almost as if he'd been awaiting right behind the door for Richie to make his intended appearance, Jon unlocked the door almost immediately. 

"Hi." Richie smiled as he walked in, his hands in his pockets. 

Jon looked tired. "Hey." He locked the door and leaned against it, arms crossed. 

"So, um." Richie cleared his throat and looked around. He didn't quite know what to say. "Did you hear about Tommy and Nikki?" He asked. 

Jon nodded. "Yeah. Lord knows that they deserve to be happy." 

Well, at least they could agree on _something,_ for once. Richie felt something near his legs, and he startled, looking down to see the cat as it walked around near his ankles. "So." Richie suddenly couldn't ignore how utterly awkward things were now that they were in the same room again. "I think that we should talk more about - you know, _us."_

They migrated over to the living room, and it didn't take a genius to figure out that when the call had come, Jon had packed in a hurry. There were clothes tossed haphazardly around the room, which the younger man hurriedly picked up as they walked in. 

The sight made Richie smile, even though he didn't entirely know why. "So, you're an uncle." He said, hoping to slowly ease into the harder parts of the conversation.

Jon nodded. "Yeah, I had to go play Uncle Buck for the rest of the kids." He sat down on the edge of the couch. 

Richie also sat down, and let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I knew what I was going to say yesterday, but now I just don't know." He looked at the painting again. It offset the rest of the decorations, a small bright light in the rest of the darkness. 

"We kissed yesterday." Jon said quietly, sounding almost shocked. 

The memories of the day before were still clear and present, and it made Richie shiver, remembering how close they'd been the day before, how Jon had seemed to melt into his own body, like he'd always been meant to be there. 

"Yeah." Richie agreed. "Did you - did you like that?" It had been hard to tell, really. 

Jon nodded. "Of course I did." He replied. 

The words sent a pleasant rush of warmth throughout Richie's body, and he didn't know what to think of that. ' _I shouldn't have just felt that.'_ He thought. But where there should've been shock was a vague happiness. "I didn't mean to send mixed signals or whatever you wanna call it." Richie said. "When I kissed you, it just felt right." 

_Like you were meant to have been there all this time._

"But we've only just started getting along and not trying to bite each other's heads off." Richie continued. "One minute we were talking and then we were kissing." 

Jon nodded. "It's too soon." He said. 

"No!" Richie cringed at himself. ' _Really?'_ He tried to smile, but suddenly, his face didn't want to cooperate with him, and it was more like a grimace. "I mean, do you feel like it's too soon?" 

"I don't _know."_ Jon looked lost and unsure, but there was something in his eyes that spoke to Richie better than any words could. 

They sat in silence for a moment, but it wasn't complete, because Richie could almost hear Jon's thoughts, see the mental debate going on, and he remembered the last day they had spent together in complete peace and love, so many years ago. 

Richie remembered holding Jon's hand. 

Oh, how everything had changed so suddenly, but it didn't have to be like that, did it?

Slowly leaning toward, Richie grasped Jon's hand. "Do you trust me?" He asked. 

"Do I have a choice?" Jon squeezed Richie's hand in return. 

_You've always had a choice._

Richie could feel the anxiety as it traveled throughout the air. He could feel the nervousness, the unsaid emotions, a million words but there wasn't enough time so they would have to make do with _this._

"Do you want this?" Richie asked, just to make sure that this was what was about to happen. 

Jon looked like he was edging closer toward oblivion. "I want _you."_

In the end, Richie didn't know how how closed that gap, and it didn't even matter on any level of comprehension. Later on, it would matter, but not at that singular moment, when their lips met and they could _feel_ each other. 

Richie hadn't known how eagerly he'd been awaiting for that moment until it happened, and suddenly, he couldn't let go. 

God, Richie couldn't let go. 

"I feel like I'm falling." Jon gasped against Richie's mouth. 

It sounded strangely like a confession. 

Was it? 

Richie raised his hands and entangled them in Jon's hair, pulling him close until their heartbeats seemed to blend together. "I'll catch you." Richie replied. 

"Are you sure that you want this?" Jon asked. "You can leave, Rich. I won't be angry. I just need you to want this, too." 

Breathing out a weak laugh, Richie looked into those beautifully familiar blue eyes. "I've been wanting this for years." 

And for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Jon smiled. 


End file.
